Reports From The Frontal Lobe
Gil VanWagner
Copyright Gil VanWagner 2012
Published at Smashwords
Reports From The Frontal Lobe
Dedicated to the search for Truth.
The thing we must learn, live, and share on our own.
The thing that shapes and saves our world.
Thank you to all that helped me learn, live, and share my truth.
I exist here because of your example, inspiration, help, and guidance.
"To thine own self be true, and it must follow, as the night the day,
Thou canst not then be false to any man...." (Shakespeare)
...or Womyn. (Gil Van Wagner)
Here I am..........and that's the truth.
This is dedicated to you...........you are the reason I wrote it.
Introduction
Maybe my story matters. Maybe not. You be the judge. I am who I am and who I am changes as the days move to the nights and then back to the days. As I get older, I get wiser. Since I am basically clueless at times, that does not say much for how much I knew when I was younger. So be it. Too busy with now to focus on my thens.
Like most of you, I’ve tried to do my best. Just like you, that didn’t go so well at times. Kinda hard to do your best when you are doing all you can to make ends meet. That ain’t an excuse. It is a reality. If you don’t understand that, you hadn’t oughta be reading this cause it ain’t gonna mean shit to you. Life is trying to do your best, missing the mark, learning from the misses, and then doing your best again. Repeat as necessary and try not to get soap in your eyes.
Now, why would you take your valuable time to read about me? You could be hiking, sleeping, kissing someone, picking your nose, or any one of many wonderful options. Yet here you are. Reading this. I might be hoping to hear from you or I might be such a memory that you have to ask to see if anyone even knows who the heck I was. Life comes and goes that quickly. Yet, here you sit. Reading about me.
Guess it will help just to tell the story and see if you get anything out of it. If you do, cool. If you don’t, that’s alright, too. I hope you read on, of course, and hope even more that you get something out of it. Otherwise, this is a waste of my time. I could be hiking, sleeping…..you get the idea.
So, here goes. My name is Gil. I am a real guy. That is important to remember because I am a writer and I can blow smoke up your ass and you will think you were just kissed and really believe it. So, this story here, is me. All me. Nothing but me. Honest to goodness.
This is gonna be kinda jumbled. I could start at the beginning and end at the end but that ain’t that way two people talk to one another. Two people talk. If they talk enough and really are honest, the stories get told to make up one big story and it all works out really nice.
That doesn’t happen too often. People tend to wonder what they can say and what they can’t and who they can say it to and who they can’t. Me? I am beyond that. You don’t even have to tell your stuff. Just take all of my stuff in. Nice and safe and easy. I send. You receive. If you stop receiving, I will still be sending only it ain’t likely for you. I kinda hope it is for you though.
See, I know stuff about you already. You are a good person that sometimes doubts a lot of stuff. You live and love and laugh and cry and rise and shine. Sometimes though, you wonder if you really matter and if what you do is really the right thing. You are a good person. You just wonder if you can be better.
Yeah, I know that about you. ‘Cause, you can be better. We all can be better. I ain’t here to lecture you or show you the way or invite you to a seminar so I can share my message. I am here to say that you and I are a lot alike. Except I am telling my story and you are listening.
Nope, I don’t have your answers. I have mine and they change. Answers are elusive little suckers. Just when we think we found them, they change. Some folks do find answers that stay the same for them. That is called organized religion. You know those folks. “My way is the right way and you are invited to get a fucking clue”. That ain’t you. Not that you are against organized religion. If that works for folks, cool. It just seems kinda short sided to you. Like you prayed for a clue and then settled for the first one that made you feel all safe and warm. The next thing you know, folks are taking sides and have pissing contests about whose God is the right God and taking collections for conversion of the clueless.
See? I did know a lot about you, didn’t I?
~ “You’re what’s in it for me.” ~
Stories from all over the place flowed in some half-assed order so you can read it from the beginning, which is actually the end, or at random or in any way you choose. This is me, blemishes and all…….so laugh at me, learn from me, love me, hate me, but read me, damn it!
Death
Let’s get this outta the way now. We are gonna die. You. Me. All of us. No one gets outta here alive. We are gonna die. It’s a coming for you. The Grim Reaper. Contrary to anything you may have heard, or hoped, death does not take a holiday. It sure does take a lot of our time before it gets here though.
Seems we are obsessed with death while we are alive. We are handed images of heaven, then the Ten Commandments, and assorted other things in fine print of biblical proportion. Kind of a “Here is what comes next and you damn well better be ready all the time or you are gonna hate being you forever and a day or so without any time off.”
Death is a part of life. Making it too big a part of life, kinda wastes the living part of stuff. Death is a cliff that we will all walk right off of because it is the next step on our path from where we come from to where we go. It is there. We will walk off of that cliff. Some folks spend way too much time looking for the cliff. They walk tentative and easy and in fear as if a misstep moves the cliff closer. As if they will see the cliff and have time to kinda pause and say, “hmmm……maybe I will just go back a ways and come back to the cliff later.”
Well, boys and girls, that ain’t how it works. You walk off the cliff and you are gone. At least from here. You are back to where we were before Mommy and Daddy tripped their own light fantastic and made magic that grew up and can read big books now.
The cliff is kinda known though. We all hope it is our right to move off the cliff in old age while sleeping after celebrating tons and tons of birthday parties. Secretly, we all believe the other folks will get to the cliff while we wish them well and get on with our lives. Young folks run and dance and sing like the cliff is just a rumor. Old folks realize the cliff is real and likely even real close and start looking backwards at where they were. The cliff ain’t back there so it feels safe and warm there. Doesn’t work though. The cliff shows up between bites of Tapioca and then they don’t have to worry about the when anymore.
Death is big business. People do their best to buy longevity. It does kinda help since we can bring the cliff closer with stupid choices. That is an acceptance of the cliff that means eat, drink, and worry life to nothingness and the cliff sees you are excited about it and lets you jump off way too early.
I learned about death in a lots of places. Not by experience yet but I will handle that when it comes. As a kid, death was something for old folks. There was a kid in fifth grade that died and that was sad but seemed kinda unreal. His name was Tommy and he was a good kid. Then he died. I knew there was some important message there. I also knew it was not me and that was enough at the time.
One time, my buddy’s Dad died. That seemed harder and more real for me. My buddy and I were just kids. He was a kid. I was a kid. We each had a Mom and a Dad. Then one day, he didn’t have a Dad. I was supposed to go the funeral parlor and do something. Not because anyone told me. Just because I knew you were supposed to do that, like my parents did when people died and stuff. I didn’t go though. It kinda creeped me out so I just didn’t go. Could have, but didn’t.
A week or so later, my buddy came by the house and we sat on the front stoop. We didn’t say much to each other. Some times are like that. You don’t have to talk to know how the other guy feels. Only, I don’t think my buddy knew how I felt.
He didn’t know I felt guilty and weird and sorry for him and wished I had gone to the funeral home and knew what to say and had done the right thing and helped him and his Mom and his sisters and his brother and told his Dad’s body I was sorry and stuff. He didn’t know any of that ‘cause he couldn’t feel me. My buddy was in a place where all he felt was hurt and alone and confused and shitty.
We didn’t say much. We just sat. That was enough. My buddy missed his Dad. Death is like that for the people on this side of their own cliff.
Death is sickly kind in the way it enters our lives. At first, it is hardly even mentioned. Although, it is the one thing after birth that links us all. We are shielded from it for many years when we are children. Then, as our understanding of life increases, it begins to appear. Sporadically, so we can learn of it in bite sized chunks. From a human perspective, it begins small. Almost innocent. Goldfish. Perhaps a hamster. The family cat or dog. Remember how that felt? Aw, gee, why did Tippy have to die? That kinda sucks, Mom. Can I have another Twinkie, please?
Then it comes in smaller, although distant, forms. A Grandparent. Another Grandparent. Maybe an Aunt or an Uncle. It might even be a Teacher or a Neighbor. It kinda pops in to say, “Hey, remember me? Just wanted to let you know I am still here. Enjoy High School.”
In High School it arrives again. More impact this time. Usually involving two of our favorite forbidden fruits, cars and booze. Might be cars and drugs but that is pretty much the same thing. Actually, the very same thing but let’s save that for later.
Someone we knew from Gym class or home room dies. It is tragic. Sometimes it is grizzly. A beer bottle through the heart. A beautiful head found somewhere other than attached to the budding body. This death stays in our life longer. It is talked about at each party for months to come. Parents use it to remind us how lucky we are it is not us. School usually has a special assembly. Most tout out the worst safety movies ever made with a State Trooper visiting hospital beds, graveyards, junk yards, and maybe even morgues. We are fed the reminders of death to ensure we live well. At least that is the premise.
Usually backfires though. Gives a pretty a damn good excuse to party while you can when you are fueled by hormones and, “when the hell am I gonna get laid?”, concerns.
I remember the grizzly accident that claimed four young lives in my home town. I really believed the bit about the beer bottle and the severed head for a long time. Right up until I realized it really didn’t matter if that part was true. Four people died and they died too young and they would not have died if they had made other choices. Of course, at the time, I was sorry for them, glad it wasn’t me, and buckled down for Algebra finals and the Homecoming Dance.
There was one girl I met in ninth grade whose death touched me in ways that made me question things in much deeper ways. We went to the same school for one year and one year only. Ninth Grade. Thompson Junior High School in Middletown, New Jersey. Her name was Denise.
It was not that Denise and I were close. We had a few of the same classes and enjoyed joking around and stuff. We did not date. We were not an item. She came from Middletown and I was bussed in from Keansburg since Keansburg High School was under construction and wouldn’t be completed until the following year. Keansburg and Middletown were different. A lot different. That’s just the way it was.
So, Denise and I liked each other and lived very separate lives when we were not together in a few classes and school gatherings. I thought she was sweet and cute and a lot more. She was a really good kid.
In my Ninth Grade yearbook, she wrote a full page note to me. I still have it to this day. It stunned me. I really mattered to her. The note felt special. It reminded me how much we can mean to someone even when we might think we are just a friend or acquaintance. I read the note a lot. Part of me, the boy part, wondered how the heck I could have been so clueless. Why hadn’t I asked her out? That sort of thing. Another part was happy. Happy I could be that important to someone so sweet and nice. The note became a secret treasure.
Denise died two years later. I heard about it a few weeks after it actually happened. I didn’t get many specifics and didn’t ask. Dead is dead once all is said and done. The news saddened me in a deep…morose kinda way. It was like I lost her and never really had her. It made me see how much more she should have tasted and lived and enjoyed. It made me wish I had talked to her and known her more. It made me realize that she was more of a factor in my life than I suspected. She let me know I touched her life more than I knew and that made her touch my life more than she knew. More than she would ever know as it turned out. She shared and that linked us. As I share this with you I realize that Denise and I are still linked. She is still that girl that I knew a bit then and appreciated a lot more later. She is special and cute and went off that cliff way too soon.
So, death sneaks in to make sure we do feel it looming. It visits a friend or two and then we enter the adult world and death becomes daily news as strangers explode in the sky and lose all their air miles. War turns death to a number right up until someone dials ours to let us know that another friend from High School now has their name etched in marble at government expense.
~ “Life is pass/fail. Retakes allowed. Grading is not on a curve.
You can erase all you mistakes and ask each other for answers.
The work you turn in at the end will determine if you move forward.” ~
My Life Stories
We tell stories. We hide in stories. In truth, we are the story. I know. I am a Storyteller. I can tell yours, your mother’s, your mother’s friend from the old neighborhood, mine, or just make something up.
Stories that are real, unreal, and all points in between…life is a story. Stories told, are lives re-lived. Stories are victory over death. We live forever in our stories. Ivanhoe…long dust, but alive because you just read about him. Uncle Tom and his cabin crossed time and space from my words to your truth just now. Stories live.
Words are that powerful. That is why I write. Writing was as much a part of my life as socks. White socks. Dress socks. Warm socks. New socks. Just about anything but Red Sox. Socks are things we have with us almost all the time. Barefoot is a time between socks. Socks are that important. We hang them by the chimney with care. We darn them. We roll them. There are drawers dedicated to and full with them. Sock puppets. Sock it to me. Socks are more important to you and your everyday life than you know. Words are like that for me. I like pairing them as much as I like sharing them. I wrap myself in them and go for walks.
Along the way, I wrote. In school, in the military, in corporate America...my path included words. I gifted, scripted, and encrypted. Sporadic, erratic, frenzied and sparse...words came. Trickle, brook, river, flood. I am an ocean of words, and ports call.
Some moved to too little. More became not enough. And then, words were life. Death was keeping them inside. Along the way, I became a writer.
~ “Sometimes I write. At the best of times, I watch as the words let me know what needs to be said.” ~
Presto Lunch
Just tiles on a sidewalk and now even they are gone. An oddity. More joke than truth, we jumped on them as children and opened ses‘ame’d their name. “Presto, Lunch!” Tiles. Like bathhouses or something Greek or Roman or special. Marker. Someone thought it out. Permanence. Not just a Diner. Hope. Ambitions. Dreams. Opened to the public. Proof positive in cement of staying power and good food. Presto Lunch. Just off the Boardwalk itself. Right around the corner from the movie house. Feed the crowd before. Feed them after. Feed them well. Feed them for as long as you can and then your children will feed them and you will be the one that made it happen. Then their children will carry that forward and their children, too. Generations from now, they will know you. That first signed dollar bill by the cash register ordered special from Sears. Your first, not second hand thing. National. Nothing but the best. Then the tiles.
Art. Craftsmanship. Class. Presto Lunch. Weather any storm. Handle any traffic. This was more than a Diner. It was your Diner. A new life, in a new town.
You even hired a waitress. Not even family. You were an entrepreneur. She needed the job. She had the baby coming and all. It was the right thing to do. She was a looker. That helped.
She left after the baby was born. She married that guy Buddy. They came in now and then. Business wasn’t as good as you planned. Maybe a job on the side. Then that was not even enough. Soon, the bills were greater than the receipts. The Cash Register was the first thing to go. Paper and pencil did better…with negative numbers that is. Soon, you had to give it up. It was a big dream anyway. Too big for this town. It was kinda busy in the summer and damn near dead in the winter. Location. Location. Location. Three swings and a miss. The signed dollar went in a box. The box went in a closet. It was sad.
No one saw you cry that night. Standing on those tiles. The ones that felt so good and now felt so dead. No one saw you cry. No one saw you kick them. No one knew you wanted to rip them up. Ashamed. Angry. No one saw. No one would know.
Each time you saw them after that, you wanted to see them less and less. Soon you stopped going there. Soon you stopped talking about Presto Lunch at all. Soon you kinda talked about it but only the good stuff. The eggs that tasted just right. The burgers as good as any in those crap places on the highway. The dinners that were real dinners for real people in a real town. It was more than a Diner. It was your home and you knew the people that came in for coffee and a roll with butter.
You are gone now. The tiles lasted longer than your Diner. The tiles lasted longer than you. The tiles are gone now. So is that waitress you hired that time when you had the new hopes, the shiny cash register, and the signed dollar bill. You are not forgotten though. I remember. That is the magic of Presto Lunch even though I never went there. You tried. You did your best. That is enough.
I love Diners. Magic places. Good food. I like my eggs over easy, and hash browns. I bet your hash browns were awesome.
~ “My world is rich with words. Words I share freely to feed anyone that hungers for them.” ~
Home
They taught me about home. The feel of it. As I live it and share it now, it is what I learned under that roof. That house on the corner of Maple and Main. A place you just knew was there. Where you were safe. Where they loved you. I lived it back then and honor it more and more as I realize it was something as common for me as air to breathe. To be safe and loved and protected. That is what they did. They showed me what home was like.
I felt it in a dream this afternoon. Mom. Protecting me from harm. Hiding me even. I remembered that feeling. The knowing. The innate confidence that all would be well. The bad could not get me there. It was safe and warm and right and natural. Natural. Natural belonging. Where they protected yet pushed. Not a place of hiding. A place of learning and growing. A place of sleep and rest and food and being.
When you have home, you sometimes think that is how things are. Home is something everyone has because you have it and therefore it is natural. It is only later that you realize some do not have it. Some do not even understand it. They live on alert. They live in a state of unsafe and wonder. Not the good wonder. The bad wonder. Hard for me to imagine that feeling truly because I am a being of home. I was born into a home and understand home as sure as I understand my own heartbeat.
Yet now I realize more and more, the sweetness of home. It is a place we all deserve. A feeling we all need. A feeling of all is right. A feeling of a protective force that cares for you and will do all it can to make sure things are right. Home. Home sweet Home. Thanks, Mom and Dad. I understand a bit more every day and appreciate what you did every day so that I could live the life I lived and do live. Everyone deserves a chance to feel good about where they are. Everyone.
~ “Say thanks while they can hear you.” ~
First Day Of School
On the first day of school, I wore a tie just like Wyatt Earp. It was way cool. A crisp new red shirt, rarer than I knew at the time, along with new black pants, new shoes, new socks, and new underwear. It was a day of newness. Yet it was something other than newness I felt. It was special. Yeah, that’s it. I felt special. Even the haircut was fresh but looked kinda out of place on the normally crew cut head. It was combed hair with a part and everything. Just like the big boys. Not quite Wyatt or Roy but more grown up than a crew cut to be sure. On that first day, Mom even walked me to school. Along the way, we stopped and had a photo taken with Mrs. McGuire.
The picture became my most prevalent memory. Me cuddled to Mrs. McGuire on the front stoop of her house, just three houses from good old 1 Maple Avenue. Mrs. McGuire was a key part of the neighborhood. She was a wonderful, Grandmotherly woman that kept an eye out for me. She was like that. She was the one I went to when I broke my arm in a fight. She was the one who had the nickel candy bar stashed away when I came trick-or-treating to the door. She was a wonderful woman that made the boy feel special each time she watched me pass. That picture became my key memory of the first day of Kindergarten.
Yet, it was my mother I felt. She was there for Kindergarten and the first days. She might not have been working or might have arranged time off but the key thing is that she was there. She walked me to school. It was her that had the camera and took the picture of her little boy and Mrs. McGuire. It was her that thanked Mrs. McGuire for keeping an eye on me when she went to work. It was her hand I loved to hold and remember as the special thing that helped me make it to Kindergarten and onto life. It was her that made it all work and all worthwhile.
The picture is my memory of a wonderful neighbor. The feeling is my reality of a wonderful Mother. She got me to school in one piece and somehow I am where I am because of that hand holding, along with the occasional boot in the butt. My first day of school was long ago. I still learn. Every day. Thanks, Mom. I am still that kid…just a little bit older and maybe even wiser. Still love that hand and reach for it in my time of need. It was there today on my walk. School seems to be in session for this kid more and more. I learned a lot, Mom. I still have a lot to learn.
A modern-day warrior
Mean mean stride,
Today’s Tom Sawyer
Mean mean pride.
Though his mind is not for rent,
Don’t put him down as arrogant.
His reserve, a quiet defense,
Riding out the day’s events.
The river
And what you say about his company
Is what you say about society.
Catch the mist, catch the myth
Catch the mystery, catch the drift.
The world is, the world is,
Love and life are deep,
Maybe as his eyes are wide.
Today’s Tom Sawyer,
He gets high on you,
And the space he invades
He gets by on you.
No, his mind is not for rent
To any God or government.
Always hopeful, yet discontent,
He knows changes aren’t permanent,
But change is.
And what you say about his company
Is what you say about society.
Catch the witness, catch the wit,
Catch the spirit, catch the spit.
The world is, the world is,
Love and life are deep,
Maybe as his skies are wide.
Exit the warrior,
Today’s Tom Sawyer,
He gets high on you,
And the energy you trade,
He gets right on to the friction of the day.
(Rush)
"My inner child still blows raspberries at some people when they ain't looking."
Ice Cream Man!
It was the chime of hope. The music of possibility. “Ice Cream Man! Ice Cream Man!” Notes carried on a summer breeze fueled immediate passion for frozen treats. My ears knew the sound, my heart buoyed with hope, and my feet beat a path to the house. Urgency incarnate. Begging and pleading skills honed over years of knowing my parents and understanding they had an Achilles Heel. They liked Ice Cream too.
I ran with abandon. Connected to the primal lust for sweets. My young mind calculated the odds with each step. If they were hungry, too…odds higher. Run, boy, run. If they were in the yard already…better chance. Run, boy, run. If they were with neighbors, shame those odds into my favor. Run, boy, run. If they were with relatives, ask for two! Run! Run, boy, run!
No one in the yard. The cold breeze of reality tempered the joy but hunger flamed on. Up the porch stairs and through the door with the call, “Ice Cream Man! Ice Cream Man!” Dad was not home. Mom just got off work. Maybe next time. The music faded along with my hope. Next time. Maybe next time. Just maybe. That was enough to keep the hunger alive. Ice Cream Man of my shattered dreams. Tomorrow you will serve me well.
~ “Unconditional is sweetened by tasting conditions.” ~
Almost Iced
Near death. Back then. In between Mrs. Kinniman and Sister Matthew. Right around Iscabibilator time. Under the water of the Raritan Bay. Pulled from under the ice. Removed from cold alternatives. Saved. Treated by the guys in the ambulance and then a bunch of folks at Doctor Berman’s. Some guy warmed me up where he shouldn’t have but that was not important at the time. Some medicine I had to take and it came in a little red container shaped like a spaceman. Put in the paper but not on the Seven O’clock New York News with Kevin Kennedy and Gloria Okon as the Weather lady.
I thought for sure I would be in trouble but Mom and Dad didn’t even yell at me. Not even later. Glen was alright after that. He pulled me out. Some lady said she did. I felt something when it happened, a moment before I was sitting on the ice and then was under it. Something that comes back to me at important times. Something about making a difference. Something about using my gift. Something about being here for a reason. Something that comes back to me at times when I need it. Like today. When I need it. Kinda like I was touched and then pushed and......well, kinda special. Pushes me. Through the tough times. Cool. Just when I need it.
~ “Hope your happy ending arrives long before the end of the show.” ~
The Beauty Shop
It was really just a converted house behind the Keansburg-Middletown National Bank and across from Modern Pharmacy. Hollywood Beauty Salon…complete with its own neon sign and kinda pink shingles. It was the place the Ladies go. Ladies taking care of Ladies. It was all Feminine, all the time. Sights. Sounds. Even the smell. There was a smell there that was not nice. Yet it was that smell. That smell I adjusted to so I could be there and be told I was a good boy. Sometimes they noticed me. Mom was proud when they did. That was nice. Sometimes they did not notice me. Mom was Queen when they did not. That was nice, too.
I think that is why she liked going. Her and the other ladies like her. They liked being Queen once in a while. Hair done their way. Someone tending them. Kindred willing to wash their hair like servants to the Royal Court. No dishes in the sink. No dirty clothes waiting. No picking up after themselves. No floor supervisor ensuring the line ran smoothly. No din of the waxing machines at the Tulip. Nothing but sitting and being tended. Plus select offspring. Only those smart enough to sit quietly where told and read magazines that had nothing for men.
This was so different than the barber shop. Barber shop smells were mine. I was part of them. Barber shop smells are embraced. Beauty shop smells are endured. Here, I was outside the smells. Didn’t like the smells here….remembered them as pungent…even stinky. Adjusted to them like beast to the harness. Something to tolerate…for as long as directed.
The Beauty Shop was foreign. This was a Their place. I was tolerated here…if. If. One word……so many directives. If not, there were consequences. If successful, even the rewards were different. No lollypop. No baseball updates. No burp of man lotion on the neck. Here the reward was petting. A pinch on the cheek. A pat on the head. A hug to a strange bosom. They did not call you “sport” here. They talked about you more often than to you. Here you were on display. The Queen’s subject. Evidence of Her prowess. Proof positive of a good boy in a place where Ladies tended Ladies and maleness was watched carefully.
Mom went less often than she wanted and took me more often than she would have liked. She needed that time. She deserved that time. She included me…because I was her son. She sent me to the Barber shop and knew I would behave. She took me to the Beauty Shop and made sure I behaved. I was groomed, inside and out.
~ “We are the seeds, we feed the seeds, and the Circle closes to begin again.” ~
Dirt Forts
Built them as a kid. Usually Glen and I. Sometimes his brother Lindsay. Sometimes Joey further down on Seeley. Mostly, Glen and I. Dirt forts. Dug them in the field on the corner of Seeley and Main. The field is gone now. It is a back yard or under the house that is built where the field used to be. Wonder if the people there even know they are living over what once were some mighty fine dirt forts.
We dug them deep and long. Had to be deep enough for us to crawl in and hide once they were done. Covered them over with some plywood and camouflaged the top with bushes and stuff so only we knew where they were. A few comics, candles, and maybe even a flash light and we had a dirt fort. We stocked it with a half a box of Cheerios, two apples, and some crackers. Depended on what was available without getting caught and how hungry we were. Glen and I would eat orange peels under the right conditions but that is another story…one that took place somewhere between dirt forts and where did the time go.
The dirt fort became our place. Sometimes it was a bunker and we weathered the storm. Other times it was a foxhole and we were the guys of Combat…I liked being a Lieutenant. Grew up to be one but not like those guys on Combat. More like….well…..that too is a whole different story. We played a lot in our dirt forts. They were hang outs, playgrounds, club houses, and Fortresses of Solitude. They were very likely not as deep and nowhere near as long as I remember. They were also cold, damp, dirty, and leaked under even the driest conditions. We saw only the good. We saw only the greatness of our dirt forts.
Thought of the dirt forts yesterday and again today while on my morning walk. Cut across the field by the walking path. The field between where I live and where I walk. We call it Tinker’s field. I do at least. Tinker was our dog but Tinker did what dogs do and Tinker died. Tinker loved that field. As a Lab, it was Tinker’s nature to love any field and any lake and any place where Tinker could play. Guess Labs and Kids are a lot alike. We spread Tinker’s ashes in that field. Wonder if people will build on that field some day and if they will know they are living on Tinker’s ashes in Tinker’s field. Maybe they should just leave the field to be a field. When is enough building enough? Fields are great places and we need more of them.
So anyway, I cut across the field. There are a few paths and stuff on this field. Maybe a few too many. Took one of them and there was a hole. No reason. It was just there. Some holes are put there and some holes just kinda appear. This one kinda appeared. As holes go, this was a good one. A dirt fort sized one. I know for sure. Went into it and checked it out. It was big enough to swallow me up…once I squatted and bent over. So I did. Yesterday. Again today.
Brought home some good rocks too. Do that most days. Building a rock river in my yard. Have been for years. It expands every year. Rocks from Tinker’s field, from hikes, from here, and from there. It is a slow process. Rivers take time to become rivers. I ain’t in a rush. Gives me more reason to take walks. There are rocks out there aching to be part of a really cool rock river. There are hiking trails in the mountains waiting too, for me to see more cool stuff. Plus, there are dirt forts yet to be seen. Wonder if Glenny can come out to play? Maybe he has a field there in Hawaii. Maybe he has dirt forts waiting for him. If not, come see mine. I can use the help building my rock river.
~ “Sometimes I can be deep and soulful. This ain’t one of those times. Try back tomorrow.
While you’re here, want some loosey-goosey?” ~
Pony Boy
When it comes right down to it, I am pretty childish. At least, more childish as of late. Going out of my way to the dirt forts on my morning walks. Galloping. Just like I use to as a kid. Galloped everywhere. On Trigger, of course. My first bike, the Sears Red Machine written about in “Jersey Sure”, was Trigger more than it was a bike or a police car or the Man From U.N.C.L.E car, or the Batmobile…the real one….from the TV Show that otherwise sucked. I galloped a lot.
I galloped again the last few days. Only for a bit. More than most guys my age though and that is kinda cool in my twisted book of logic and magick tricks for children of all ages. I galloped. From the path to the dirt fort. Just after the walk, just before picking up the rocks, and just before heading back to the house. Galloped. Just like days of old. Something about horses got to me then and ever since. Never owned a horse. That is something other people do. I was not ever one of those horse owning people. My horses came from Movies and Television…and my head.
Equine speaks loudly. Proud animals. Noble beasts. Power, strength, dignity, and other things that inspire. The feel of tack and harnesses and bits. The smell of all of that. There is some level of control and yet freedom. Trigger was domesticated yet primal at the same time. There is a balance…a beauty…a magick in that. So I galloped a bit the last few days. The rider, the ridden, and more.
Thought of the Beatles too. At least one of their songs. Let It Be. I am learning that lesson. More and more. Letting things come. Trusting. Feeling the freedom that comes with trust in that Force that makes all things happen. My Higher Power. Trusting that I do not have to make things happen…just let things happen. I just have to walk when it feels right. Talk when it is right. Write from where all things are right. Just be. Gallop when that Higher Power spurs me on and feel what it was, what it is, and what it all means. Giddiup. I guess I am kinda childish. I plan to be even more childish. Gotta remember the lessons from Kindergarten. Gotta be willing to play and laugh and sing out of tune and drum and color outside the lines.
The bad guys might have other plans. They might try to ambush me. In fact, I know some of their plans already. They haven’t got a chance. I know how to gallop, have a short cut to the dirt fort, and wear an almost white hat. The bad guys are bit players in my life. No kidding.
~ “Put a clown nose on Evil and call him Jose. He won’t like it but that is quite okay.” ~
Old Spice
“Are you wearing cologne?” The boy hesitated for a moment but then said yes to his mother’s question. He knew the rules. She asked. He answered. She asked the eight year old a few more questions.
“When did you start wearing cologne?” A long time ago might be a relative thing at nine years old but that was his reply. He added, “all the guys wear cologne.” She asked, in habit, if he would jump off the Brooklyn Bridge just because they did. He thought that was a really stupid question. He said no, more out of habit than respect.
He pictured her holding the light in his eyes as she peppered him with more questions. “Where did you get cologne?” His answer was as vague as only an eight year old could see as even close to an answer. She let him off the hook and he scurried away.
Mothers tend not to forget those sort of episodes and this Mother was one that pursued it further. She asked her husband if he noticed that “…the boy had started wearing cologne.” He had not but he did a few days later at the breakfast table. He asked the boy about it and was handed a mirror image of the responses from the motherly interrogation. His third degree was bush league compared to the boy’s mothers. The father shook his shoulders and let it pass.
A few kids at school noticed and asked the Third Grader about it. He thought it was cool they noticed and said he really liked the smell of Old Spice. He highly recommended it to his playground buddies.
The boy’s sister asked him about it as well. She knew her brother could be creative with the truth and wondered where the heck he had gotten the cologne. He held his ground though and she was left to wonder.
She did not wonder long. Two weeks later, she saw the boy walking across the street to the Viking House. It was a rooming house directly across from her bedroom window. Her brother more ran than walked towards the house and she knew exactly why. Their brother, Jack, was home for the weekend from the Air Force. He stayed in the Viking House and that is where her little brother went this fine Saturday morning.
About an hour later, she heard him bound up the stairs. As he passed her open bedroom door headed to his room, she asked if he got to see Jack. His face lit up as he shared the details of the visit. As the happy eight-year-old spoke, she saw the bottle of Old Spice in his hand.
It was likely half empty and merely the remnants of what had been Jack’s daily cologne for a while. She was only twelve but understood that bottle was pure gold for a boy who wanted to feel his brother each time he splashed on cologne. Sometimes the greatest gifts come in half empty bottles of Old Spice.
~ “My brother cried when his wife was crying….so I cried with him.” ~
Shoeshine Boy
I shined shoes. Got on my hands and knees and shined shoes. Even did the spit shine with my own spit and polish on my own hands to really buff out that shine. Ten years old and going in and out of bars asking guys if they wanted a shine. Guys in the bar liked that. Most of them. Enough of them. Let the kid earn a buck. Charged a dime and sometimes they gave me a nickel tip. Sometimes they gave me a quarter. Sometimes no one wanted a shine.
Looking back, it should have felt degrading. Almost like begging. Asking to kneel and serve and polish shoes for crying out loud. A kid asking drunks to shine their shoes. I felt damn good. The shoebox was a hand me down. It was my brother’s and it looked handmade and not in the crafty kinda way. In the cut out of plywood and nailed together by a kid kinda way. I had an old boy scout belt for a strap and lugged that damn shoebox all over town on weekends. Bar to bar. The Burg had a lot of bars and I knew them all. Walked in and tapped each person. “Hey Mister. Want a shine?”
Sometimes the bartender would shoo me out. I didn’t care. There was another bar and maybe someone there needed a shine. I always checked the jukebox. Sometimes there were free songs on there. Songs someone else forgot to play so I played them and then hoped I would have enough time to shine someone’s shoes while the music played. Usually picked Elvis. Still would today if I went to bars any more. Sometimes there was change in the little slot and I found it. It was mine. Usually pocketed that. Let someone else pay for the music. I kept the cash.
The money from shoe shining was mine. A can of polish or stuff to keep the box full but that was chump change. There were big profit margins in shoe shining before I even knew what the hell profit margin was. Sometimes I’d get a few snacks along the way. Sometimes I would go see a movie with the money. It was good to have money and shoe shining gave me some cash.
It was dirty work and it humbled me in a way but I didn’t feel any of that. I just felt good. The heaviness of the box felt good. The black polish under my nails felt good. The tired feeling from walking miles and lugging that damn box bar to bar felt good. Just me and my shoebox. The box was like a friend. It went places with me. I guess that was how mechanics felt about their tools or Doctor’s about their bag. Not just a thing. My shoebox with me while I did my thing. Felt good. Making money felt good too but I felt good even on the days I didn’t make a dime. Felt good for trying. Felt good for spending a few hours just trying. “Pardon me, Mister. Would you like a shine?” Felt good asking. Even if they said no. A guy’s gotta do what a guy’s gotta do. Me? I shined shoes.
~ “Whatever you do, do it well.” (Buddy Van Wagner) ~
Croquet
Summer is a little different in Jersey. As a kid in the Garden State in the 60s, my childhood was exactly like yours…only different. Sure, we had all those summery things. Days at the Beach and sweet memories of too much sun too soon and peeling until the Fourth of July. Opened windows and strategically placed fans in the futile fight against oppressive humidity. Crickets, and the wonder of where they went when it snowed. Adults circled in Lawn Chairs with cold beers and warm stories. All those things…with a bit of a twist.
It might have been because of Saint Anne’s School and the Ladies in Black. That was surely a factor. They were Nuns. Sisters of Mercy. The very concept of Nuns. Take a group of women, deny any aspect of sex, house them all together, dress them in black, and put them in charge of children all day. Steven King could do a series of books on that and have enough material left over for a weekly talk show. Saint Anne’s School was Mayberry meets the Other World Kingdom. The Nuns set the bar high, believed in home work, and lived to teach. Catholic school is not for namby-pambies. We had that for nine months and then were paroled each summer. Too much time off for kids with way too much energy and no Nuns in sight…add in two working parents, shit on TV, not enough money for camp and you had a recipe for disaster on a grand scale. The prisoners were released without any guards. We were loose canyons.
Of course, my parents tried to keep us busy. A combination of keep them busy and prayer….they rushed home from work every night and called a still standing house with no emergency vehicles success. We had chores. Mom wanted the house not roped off as a crime scene and clean when she got home from work at 3:30. That meant Damage Control began at 3 every day. We whirling dervished from house destroyed to “hi, Mom, how was your day” with amazing efficiency. We removed the bodies, shooed the animals, picked up debris, put the furniture back in the right places in the right rooms, swept, vacuumed, showered, dressed, found a book to pretend to read, and waited for Mom’s carpool with a look on our faces like the Vienna Boys Choir. Most days, it worked really well. Sometimes she was less than satisfied with our efforts. Still, more often than not, we were successful in what was not discovered.
As the summer progressed, Mom and/or Dad added a few more chores to fill the day. Usually based on the evidence. First offense, tend the garden. Next offense cut the grass and rake the yard once a week until we got our heads out of our asses. By the end of the summer, we were to dig a canal linking the Raritan bay to the Red Sea just to keep busy.
It was not all penance and punishment. My parents wanted us to have some regular fun too. I had my brother’s hand me down baseball glove that was well loved twice over. My sister and I had beach passes. Lots of time spent in and near the Raritan Bay. There were whiffle bats. My sister turned out to be a master of the cruel but sickly amusing sport of Lightening Bug baseball. Her laugh when their little butts flared across the yard was as beautiful as it was perverse. Next to her pee stain on Lane 6 at Harmony Bowl, it was her best moment in sports.
We had outside kid games. Tag. Freeze Tag. Hide and Seek. Those had some variations as did everything in the only state that sounds even more truthful when you drop the New from the name. We combined the relatively innocent One-Two-Three Red light with the rather sinister Mumpries. When you were “it” in Mumpries, when you were caught, you were basically pummeled until you counted to ten loud and clear. Combine that with One-Two-Three Red Light and the level of intensity increased dramatically. One of the most unusual Jersey spins on anything, however, involved Croquet.
Croquet has the best press agents in the world. It has a brand. The very image of the game. Pastoral. Peaceful. Almost regal. A fine gathering of fine people playing a fine game on a fine summer day. Each dressed sweetly and with great dignity. White sweaters with the Gale Storm, Yale ain’t just a lock, tube sock as an upper garment fashion. Lads and Lassies conversing quietly as each takes their turn in a game more about enjoying company rather than competition. That is what my parents thought when they were gifted a Croquet set. Another hand-me-down that promised summer sweetness.
It turned out a tad bit different on Exit 117 and just off of Highway 36 at the corner of Maple and Main. Croquet was not quite ready for that Twilight Zone. My parents should have known better. The first clue should have been the dangers of any sport that involved mallets and driving spikes into the ground. It calmed for about as long as it took for a Good Humor bar to melt in the Jersey summer sun. We were more Dead End Kids than Little Rascals.
Dirty Eddie, one of the older kids, found the sexual connotations of Croquet. That did not surprise us. Eddie found sexual connotations in Howdy Dowdy, Superman, Ethel and Lucy, and most cloud formations. Dirty Eddie, really from the Dead End street, enjoyed putting his nice big ball though the hole thingy. He routinely asked the girls if they liked the size of his mallet and to please “be gentle with my balls, Ladies”. Before I knew what a slime ball was, I knew Dirty Eddie was one. He showed up, muscled his way into the game, and insisted on being the blue ball guy. Since Dirty Eddie was the first kid in Keansburg with a switchblade, he got his way, blue ball wise. We tolerated him because we were busy with a whole new level of this wonderful game. One Maple Avenue was the birthplace of Extreme Croquet.
We only played Extreme Croquet a few times. There were kinda rules. We were really flexible on that though since the game developed, some might say deteriorated, on its own. Mallets became giant hammers to drive wooden balls across the yard.
Croquet became a contact sport. Elimination. No Marques of Queensbury rules. The game developed with each new discovery. I think it was my sister that discovered Super Bunking. No gentle tap here. Super Bunking involved pressing your ball lower than your opponents. With the right angle and a hard enough swing, the opponent’s ball went airborne. Keansburg geophysics was perfectly suited for Super Bunking. Main Street was concrete. Long and flat…ideal for bunks measured in blocks. The asphalt of Maple Avenue was less desirable due to parked cars and narrower curbs. The sewer system on Main Street also promised elimination since time to dig the ball from the openings counted as disqualification. While people shagged nuclear bunks, Mallets became swords and jousting sticks. The Jets and the Sharks fought for rule while Patty next door asked Doctor Berman if her ball passed his office. Extreme Croquet was a very fluid event.
So fluid that Mom’s carpool arrived home one day in the middle of a game that started sometime early that morning. I am not sure what set her off. She described the scene in so many different ways that night at dinner. Jousting. Polo. Sword fights. Gang wars. Maybe Glen and his brother sword fighting with mallets on the roof of the shed lit her fuse. Could have been the jousting match with the bicycles and mallets pointed to kill that forced the car she was in up onto the sidewalk. It might have been the alleged report of a Gang War at that damn house on the corner. (I think that was fabricated). My money was on the busted wind window on Studebaker parked by the PAL building. Something sure got her mad. She banned Extreme Croquet from any oxygen based planet that day. She was out of the car quicker than a nuclear bunked croquet ball. She was not happy. She had that “What the Fuck?” look on her face. Her hands were raised louder than her voice.
The rest of the kids disappeared like cockroaches when the lights come on. My sister and I had to gather up what was left of the Crocket Set. Much of it was missing it seemed. Sis fished a mallet and two balls from the tree in front of the Viking house. One mallet turned up on the roof of the shed a few weeks later. Rumor has it that the red ball caught the bus to Perth Amboy on Carr Avenue and showed up years later on “The Sopranos”. Unfortunately, Tony and the Bada-Bing crew, cut that scene due to its violent nature.
Most of the survivors of Extreme Croquet suspect the blue ball and its mallet went south with Dirty Eddie. Most of the croquet sets in the Burg were sans those very same things. Dirty Eddie got around. My therapist recommends I paint those images in crayon and burn them while saying a decade of the Rosary. That seems sacrilegious as hokey. I shall embrace my nightmares. If captured by Hannibal Lector, I will know it could be worse. Hannibal could be Dirty Eddie with years of experience and a collection of mallets and blue balls.
Croquet with a Jersey twist is quite the thing to behold. If you ask someone about their limp and they inform you it is an old Croquet injury, ask them “What exit?”
~ “New Jersey Haiku. Fuck you. Fuck him, too.” ~
Cousin Dickey
I woke up this morning on the other side of something. Felt nice to have whatever it was, behind me finally, and whatever is headed this way, in motion. Thought about my dead cousin, Elvis, a compass, and some other stuff and then did what I obviously needed to do. Shook things up.
Radical nothingness from a place of calm cluelessness. Did something that used to be last, first. Didn’t even do something that is usually first. Bobbed when I normally weaved on the walk. Saw flowers where there used to be grass. Took some summer stuff from the back to the front. Stowed some winter stuff where the summer stuff used to be, and fed these words to whoever will gobble them up before having what will likely be breakfast, for lunch. Just another day is the life of “Who is this guy and what did he do with the Gil we used to know?” Realized all I have, and how to give it even more, thanks to all of that.
Thanks to lessons learned from Teachers of life disguised as parents, Elvis Presley, and Cousin Dickey, not to be confused with Cousin Brucie. Cousin Brucie was the voice of WABC Radio, 77 on your dial, right from NYC and into my youth with all the hits that used to be hits, are the hits, and will always be the hits long after Murray K said here’s the Beatles and the Fab Four said Hello Goodbye then stayed forever. Cousin Brucie is still around and still looks like Cousin Brucie. (That is creepy like most clowns are creepy). Cousin Dickey died quite a few years ago. He taught me a lot of lessons while he lived.
Cousin Dickey mattered. He lived life like he knew something. He did know something and I just begin to know that something about me, and to understand that he knew it about himself all along. He knew he mattered. He knew it was alright to have mattered. To have peace and answers that you just knew even when you couldn’t explain how you knew. To have the call to taste life on fishing boats and oil rigs and still understand others lived other lives in other ways. To have a light in your eyes when you were with other people, just because you were with them. To have the knowledge that we are here now and tomorrow is a crapshoot at best. To have people that love you, sometimes get you, often don’t, and that love you all the while. Cousin Dickey lived a lesson in life many just don’t learn. We have to know that we have to be all that we can be. We have to look for what we have where it feels right and do things that are right for us because those things feel right for us. We have to find ourselves before we can really be anything to anyone else. Cousin Dickey mattered. He mattered because he celebrated all he had and all he had to give because of all he had.
The first lesson of life is understanding what we have. We must be taught that we were put here for a reason, that reason is important, and it is alright to be happy to be alive. My Teachers taught me that. They pushed me back inside myself for answers about gifts, how to know them, and then how to hone them. My Teachers came in all shapes and sizes. They still do. The first lesson is the lesson of life that we must continue to learn all along the path of life. We must learn to have. We have all we need to have and what we have improves the more we work at it. What we have gets better and better as we do what we must do to really understand what we have. (By George, I think I have it. Now, if I were a Rich Man….Oops, bad form to mix musicals in writings.)
Then we can learn the second lesson of life. How to give. Sometimes folks get stuck on the first lesson…how to have. Sometimes have gets stuck at have to. We have something and it becomes a chore. A thing we have to do. A thing we have to take care of. A thing we are stuck with. We begin to have to do things. We forget ourselves because we have to do what others want. What others think we should. What others said would be best for us. What others will approve of. We just have to. Then we begin to long. To miss. To long for ourselves. To miss ourselves. To wonder why others have and we don’t. Why others are lucky and blessed and……..holy shit, what a load of crap. It drains even typing self-pity. Self-pity is not something I have and not something I ever want to have. Some of my best Teachers taught me that….by example, good and bad. I learned and celebrate what I have.
When we know what we have, we can give. Just give. It is easy to give cause what we have blossoms by the bushel basketful. We focus on what we have, what we have multiplies, and we give it away. Give it because that is why we are here. To learn what we have, hone what we have, and give away what we have. The winner at the end of this journey will have given away almost all they had…..and still leave behind tons that matter.
Cousin Dickey left behind a lot. He left behind enough inspiration to span decades, shine from the beyond, penetrate the granite like cluelessness that is my soul, and make me even happier with what I have. Good Teachers are like that. They came, They had. They gave. They conquered. To have is to live. To give is to live. Cousin Dickey lives. I am glad he touched my life and still does.
~ “Sometimes we tell the story. Sometimes we hide in the story,
when in truth we are the story. I know I am…Storyteller.” ~
Stereotypes
Before they were stereotypes they were the people in my life. They were real before they were fictionalized, fantasized, anesthetized, vilified, elevated, deflated, and homogenized.
The shoe repair man that lived in the back room of his shop. A shop of so many shoes. Cast-offs, waiting pick-ups, forgotten, beyond hope, those under those other ones, ladies mixed with men and coupled with children’s….I saw something different each time and felt the effect of the collected. The appearance, leather vest, round rim glasses, silver ring of very little hair, the name, the way he moved, the way he remembered things…Hollywood casting would love his lovability and Jewish name.
The crusty mechanic. The darkest man in a lily-white town before rainbows were really valued. Chewing on what looked to be the same stogie, wearing the blue coveralls held together by decades of axel grease, concealed behind halves, fenders, that joist, a Model whatever on cinderblocks now home to a raccoon and close knit starlings, drive shafts, crankshafts, and potholes named Cookie. Stocky, with eyes that smiled a split second before the rest of his face. Arms like stubs, fingers that looked like anything but what they were; agile, and that shuffling walk of one drop light on the head more than he ever wanted. His mechanical prowess was more rumored than evidenced, no one knew where he really lived, and the gas pumps didn’t and hadn’t for a long time. He smelled of fossil fuels and reeked with character. Curmudgeoned wise man with a red rag in his left pocket and a socket wrench looking for a home in his right hand.
The Irish Priest too old to function and too spry to be ignored. He drifted from absent-minded to brilliant and let the youngsters think they knew better. Then he helped them fix things. He was the power behind the throne and didn’t care as long as things were right. Everyone knew him. Everyone loved him. Everyone underestimated him. His grave is halfway between my grandparents and my parents…and I look for him just like I did when passing the Rectory that feels much lesser now.
Sister Mary Joseph John, the Bride of Christ worthy of the hand selection. Luminous. Intelligent. Hail Mary, Full of Grace Kelly. She inspired, quieted, and loved. She knew you and him and her but you were enough and always tried to be whenever she entered your thoughts. Any one in Habit got the respect you felt for her. You were one of many yet she made you feel one of one. She was one in a million yet claimed to be just one of many. You had her in Fifth Grade and know that heaven is a lot like Fifth Grade. You got all A’s except that one B and you have made it up to her in the three going on four decades since. You loved her. Not in that way. Not then. You still love her. She was as feminine as they come. You were as studious and pious as you could be because she knew your best from your bullshit and demanded your best.
The short-order cook at the Diner on the Highway. If he wasn’t there, he’d be in prison. He was Navy, or liked that Tattoo that looked like Popeye’s and peeked out just under his rolled up undershirt sleeve. You wondered if his hat came crooked. You knew you would crush and bend yours the same way if you ever entered that world. He didn’t speak but you heard who he liked and who he didn’t loud and clear. You were in the like column, most of the time. You were semi-regular…just on the edge of his give a shit meter. The flipper never left his hand and he never called it a spatula. He knew over easy real well and dismissed special orders with a look hotter than any grill anywhere. The few times he came out from the opening in the wall and had a cup of coffee were your moments behind the curtain. You wanted to call him Cookie but were smart enough to shut the hell up and just drink your coffee. You hoped he didn’t notice you put cream in it, wussy, and took your next cup black. Left it that way long after he put out his cigarette and disappeared into his world.
They weren’t in Wal-Mart today. They won’t be tomorrow either. They are still real though. Keep living the dream. Another cup of Jo, please. I got a date with an Angel and the roads are slicker than snot. One more for the road.
~ “Sometimes the way up is behind you.” ~
Bowl
It was only a bowl on the table in a show on HBO. A prop. Period piece. Two vegetables. More than two actually since one of them was succotash. The other one was asparagus. The scene moved on. Background music. Dialog. Acting. My eyes were on the bowl.
A two vegetable bowl. The kind with a swirly divider in the middle. Like the grey one that was on the table at One Maple every night forever back before forever became wow was it was really that long ago. Not just a bowl. The bowl. The one we used every night along with some other one too. I almost forgot about it. Until this show, this night. Then all those dinners those nights came back to me. Me, and Mom, and Sis, and Dad…..and Jack even though he was in Alaska or Massachusetts or across the street at the Viking House. All those meals. I thought they would last forever. Heck, I guess they did.
Pass the potatoes, please. Mashed are my favorite. Except for French Fries and those were one of those never at home things in a house with one bowl to hold two vegetables.
~ “Love touches quickly, heals deeply, and grows in the giving.” ~
Lamb Chop
Lamb Chop came out of the closet today. I saw her there behind Legos, Elmo, two keyboards that unfortunately still work, a really annoying chicken that dances the really annoying chicken dance, a bunch of books, two flutes without volume control, and several other things the Grandkids enjoy too much for my todays but not enough for my tomorrows. Something said take her out so I did. Kinda sorry she was stuffed there in the first place. Felt kinda disrespectful. Lamb Chop deserves better.
Over fifty years since she first spoke to me with her insufferably cute voice, Lamb Chop still makes me smile. Quirky, fun, smarter than she let on and less innocent than she pretended, the little white cutey was easy to love. The very feel of her reminds me how to smile spontaneously.
As a kid, Lamb Chop was Lamb Chop. Kids see the magic of ventriloquists easier and deeper than adults do. Kids see the life of the character. They see cartoons, puppets, and toys as real. I did. I remember that I did and honor it. Howdy Doody wasn’t just a puppet. Howdy Doody was Howdy Doody. Kids believe what they see because they trust rather than question. Kids don’t care what is behind the curtain. Kids enjoy the show.
Lamb Chop was Lamb Chop but Lamb Chop was more than Lamb Chop too. Lamb Chop had a side kick. Howdy Doody had Buffalo Bob Smith. Lamb Chop had Shari Lewis. Ah, Shari Lewis. I had a crush on Shari Lewis. Shari Lewis….the pretty lady that held Lamb Chop whenever Lamb Chop talked. I felt things about her that I did not understand then and that are even sweeter now.
Shari Lewis was cute and quirky and easy to love. Seeing Lamb Chop reminds me of her. Shari was the energy of innocence. Her innocence was Lamb Chop’s life force and she shared that innocence with me back then and even now….over a decade after she died. Her voice is still felt. I felt it this morning because of a Lamp Chop stuffed animal stashed in a closet.
That stuffed animal is in my office now. I like smiling when I see it. The feel of innocence is a good thing. Shari Lewis was a nice lady. She made a lot of people happy. She looked healthy and happy and lovable from the first time she appeared on Captain Kangaroo (yep…..that was where Shari first showed us Lamb Chop) to when she closed the curtain on her live performances. Having Lamb Chop in my office is right on so many levels. Innocence needs to be honored…not stuffed away in a closet.
As I penned this, my wife walked in and saw Lamb Chop on the desk. She instantly smiled. A warm smile from a place where her kid still lives. She asked about the stuffed animal and then ruffled the stuff animal’s cotton balled head. “Hi, Lamby.”
~ “Just being in the Peanut Gallery is enough for most people.” ~
Port Monmouth Lessons
The rest was followed with answers and the answers were followed with choices. The choices were followed with the ripping of soul and that was followed by the push of wings to the light. In the flight and in the light and to the right with all that’s left and all that’s left will be alright for all is right is what we left. Hear the voices that speak new truth and know that truth was there before and there before the spoken truth was other things that were not heard. Feel the change and ride the waves of motion. This is your reality.
Words of yesterday. Maybe it was the day before. I put them in a soul cubbyhole and let them wait. They festered and stewed and whatever it is that happens to things in the soul cubbyholes. Now they are here. Take ‘em or leave ‘em. I don’t really give a shit.
Today, I hiked. A new path. Fitting irony in that selection this day for reasons that make sense to me and likely me alone. There was a stretch of the walk that was dark. Something bad happened in those hills. Recent and long ago. People were driven there or taken there and hurt. Felt it and sent healing to it so that the woods could and would let it go. It is hanging around too long and needs to be gone.
Pushed through that and wandered up Taylor Canyon. Aside for three Womyn that passed me and took a different path, more ironies in that as well, the path was mine and mine alone. At one point that was a stretch called “Steep Choices”. It lived up to its name and its coming attractions. That was just beyond Capwell Cove. A place that seemed far away from people but was very much known to people.
Then came the feelings. Feelings of Port Monmouth Woods. Hikes as a boy. Port Monmouth Woods seemed like it was far away. Now and back then. It was under a mile away but felt longer. I began at 1 Maple Avenue and then headed up Forest Avenue. At the end of Forest Avenue was Port Monmouth Woods. In those woods, I learned. Learned about pollywogs and frogs. Learned about poison ivy and other cautions. Learned about marking trails and remembering the way back home.
Over time, Port Monmouth Woods was consumed. Houses and more houses. Keansburg High School is there now. I learned there too. Learned about life and growing up and living my word. Learned about lots of things, just like we are supposed to learn in High School. Port Monmouth Woods was about learning, even after it was consumed. I walked those woods again today. Alone. Yet I was all that was and all that will be and all that ever was. I learned today.
Learning comes to me in many forms. Learning is like that. Today it was Latin Gibberish. Unreal words from a dead language tomed to the Woods as mantra and prayer. How was your day? Four words that don’t translate but did communicate. Gibberish, Googled, revealed. It is a male thing. Not the Googling nor the Gibberish. The message. It was a male thing about fathers and who they are and who to call father. It was about the Pagan Religion of Norway and Salvador Dali. So I walk again. Into the night. Alone and feeling insights pushing forth in a birthing.
~ “Sometimes I write. Not much though. Now I report from a place of truth where stuff just makes sense even when I am not really sure how. It just does.
It feels right, and is right, and that is enough. Right is right. It is as simple as that.” ~
Time Is On My Side
One of my all-time favorite songs is by the Rolling Stones. It is not because I am a die-hard Stones fan. Bear in mind, the Stones rock. I got the see them live in Istanbul, which says quite a bit about my life actually. They deserve to be honored for living like the Rock Stars they are. It is just that the Beatles songbook stuns me. Elvis is my foundation. If there is anyone else on the planet that can say they did their Masters and PhD work on topics related to the King of Rock N Roll, reach out. We can form a small club ‘cause right now, I am the only one that can say that. Still, one of the Stones’ songs touches me every time it plays.
As songs from that band of how the hell do they keep on going guys go, it is likely one of the softest. It is danceable in a hold the other person close to you kinda way. Not typical for Jumping Jack Flash and Satisfaction makers. Still, it gets to me. It is loaded with people for me.
Kathy Langan is in that song. She went to Saint Ann’s school with me. Really nice girl. Long black hair, fair skin, great smile, and, before I even knew what good energy was, good energy. She was nice to be around in any setting. She was the first girl I ever slowed danced with. (Besides my sister and my mom……and I don’t care where you are from…..THAT IS NOT THE SAME.) Kathy and I danced to that song several times a long, long time ago. Each time the song plays, we are dancing to it again.
She was easy to dance with, smelled good, felt better, and pretended not to notice how nervous I was. (Sounds like rate a record, doesn’t it?) It was a magic moment in life and Kathy is mine forever even though I saw her only once since Grammar School. That is the power of music and touch and energy. Kathy is in that song and always will be for me.
She is not alone. Jimmy Donlon is in there, too. It was his birthday party at his house. He is gone. Died young. He is in that song though and will be for as long as I am on this side of the grass. Maybe even longer thanks to these words. Jimmy had a birthday party and I still celebrate that he did. He is remembered all these years later.
Just like another friend, Kerry Walters. High school, passing in the hallway, a few classes together, friend of mine. A nice, really nice kid. He died young too. I think of him right along with others when Time Is On My Side weaves it magic spell. Denyse Tynan is in there, too.
Denyse went to school with me for one year. Ninth Grade. Pretty girl. From another town girl. Talked to her a lot. More than I realized at the time. She wrote a deeply personal note a page long in my ninth-grade yearbook. She died a few years later. She touches me every time I think of her. She steps out of a song, draws my attention to a note on a yearbook in a closet downstairs, and smiles.
Time IS on my side. It is on all our sides. It is all around us and is something much more than what we measure with our feeble timepieces. It is bigger than life. It is in the music and words and more. Thanks for having a party, Jimmy. Thanks for the dance that opened me to the Land of a Thousand Dances, Kathy. Thanks for being there, Kerry and Denyse. Say good-bye, Annette. See you when I see you. Keep your dance card open for me.
~ “Music kisses the boo-boo in my heart.” ~
Teachers
He stared at me from a photo taken over forty years ago. I smiled and recited all of “Yet here, Laertes”. Just like he had me do in tenth grade English class. Mister Robert T. Currie. English Teacher. Shakespeare fan. To be or not to be answered. To Thine Own Self be True. Just like Mister Currie.
He drove an old Chevy and kept it in great shape. He sometimes ate lunch on weekends as Josie’s Diner on Main Street. Actually, I think it was breakfast. He ate alone. Acknowledged any one warmly and kept to himself. Read the paper. Although I did not know the name for it at the time, Robert T. Currie was scholarly.
Students learned about the classics in his class. Most of them did not like to learn about the classics. All of them did though. That was his way. He was a Teacher. An honest to goodness Teacher. In his class, you learned or you were booted out.
He taught what he loved. The classics. English in its highest form and greatest achievement….the Bard. William Shakespeare. How do I know Shakespeare is the highest form and greatest achievement? Mister Currie taught me that.
Mind you, he never said those words. He did not pound Hamlet into us. Well, actually, he kinda did pound that King and several others into us. He did it by assigning readings and writings and memorizations. He did it by holding us accountable. He did it because he knew it was the right thing for him to do. To teach what he loved and ensure we tasted it fully….if we liked or not…if we acquired the taste or not…we would taste and then decide what was forever.
He lived just a few blocks from me. On Commodore Avenue, the dead end street just before Doctor Berman’s and just after the old Telephone building. The Quigleys lived on the corner of Commodore and Main. Mister Curry lived down the street. I used to look for his car whenever I passed by on Main. Not sure why. Somehow it felt right to know he was home and alright.
I think he lived with his mother. He likely had more of a life than I knew but he had quite enough of a life in my world. He loved his job and seemed content every time I saw him. That is quite a wonderful life in my book.
Whenever I saw him outside the classroom, he was still Mister Currie. He seemed dressed even in casual clothes. If I saw him without his suit jacket, the image was trumped by the feel of him. He felt like he was always in a suit coat. Was it really always tweed? Did it really have patches on the elbows or what that a Mister Currie Jedi mind trick? He carried himself with dignity and intelligence. He did it naturally. That is what made it so right. He was himself and he was a teacher. Mister Currie lived up to his own standards of what a teacher is. It was in his wiring.
So did the Nuns. Sister Corita, Sister Roland, Sister Conrad, Sister Francis De Sales, Sister Wallburger (we had a lot of fun with that name), and Sister Matthew. Even Sister Celine (whose nickname shall not be repeated here), the art teacher, and old evil eye herself, Sister Marie De Jean, the principle….lived up to what they were; Teachers. Miss Talty…with her straight legs…..Mister McCann…the ‘shoulda been in the Army’ guy, and Mrs. Gormerly….taught. They worked hard to feed us knowledge. They did…along with example. Just like Mister Currie. They set examples.
Maybe that is more accurate. Examples. Examples of dedicated and knowledgeable people doing their best to guide the future. Teachers. There is nobility in the craft. It comes from the nobility of the people who teach and love teaching.
I learned from them. I thank them. I applaud how much they gave of themselves so that we learned. It was a treat to see them outside the classroom. It was a privilege to see them in the classroom. Thanks, Mister Currie and all the Mister Curries of the world.
~ “Today we harvest our yesterdays and plant our tomorrows.” ~
Le Sabre
A convertible, blue instead of brown, and felt more like a Caddy but I knew it right away. Learned to drive in it. It wasn’t mine then. It isn’t mine now. Down the road I went. Temptation dressed as pleasure in the front seat. She tried to call the shots. Ego in the back seat, just along for the ride. A face from long ago that I almost didn’t recognize. Let him know I did and that he always reminded me of my brother.
She rode low to the road. A bullet. The bridge went to who knows where. It was the horizon. It was a cliff. Didn’t matter. Urgency had the pedal to the medal. The storm in the distance slashed the sky and was exactly right for this trip and these travelers. Even in the parking space and perfectly centered, the long sleek sword blocked the way for another sword that parked instead of going around. They shouldn’t have commented. They shouldn’t have gotten out of the car. They shouldn’t have said they were appraisers. It was too easy for me and Ego. Two bald and brief-cased out of shape stooges. Too easy to bash their heads on the hood of even another car and then get back on the road.
My only new Buick went up in flames just as a new year birthed itself back before I really started traveling. Now, my drive way is bigger than I need and there is a bike in my carport that knows Red Rock City and looks a lot like the one from the Sears Catalog that was the answer to all my prayers back when I was just a boy. Now, I am Word Man and folks thought they saw me but they saw my echo while I was quiet and playing with my MasterCard. Let the stories know I’m ready for them; hungry for them. I am here inside the words and that is where I belong. I will keep the words and letters coming, boys and girls.
Ladies, keep your legs crossed ‘cause that muffles the siren song. I can name that tune with my eyes closed, my fingers crossed, and without buying a vowel from my crap shooting buddy in any gin joint in any town even when one-eyed Jacks are wild. I am Pogo and know all about Froggy and his Magic Twanger. Got that joke and all the lame ones that followed. Laughed when I should have been learning, but learned more than I laughed. Learned to drive in a Buick. Learned to love in a Cadillac. Maybe it was a Plymouth Duster. Doesn’t matter, I learned to love really well…or so I have been told. That guy in the back seat remembers very well and hardly ever forgets a face.
~ “Test drove a caddy today and got a hole in one.” ~
Graveside
Graves. One waits for each of us. Not the one they put our body in. That one can be avoided. We can float our ashes on the wind. We might cast the vessel that was ours into the sea. We might let them have us in the labs. Parts of us might move about in others thanks to donating what we won’t be using anymore. Doesn’t really matter. We ain’t there anymore. We died, boys and girls. We can’t really be late for our own funeral. We ain’t even there. Our grave might be that one for someone else though…that grave that really gets them mad about death.
My mother’s grave was that one for me. Stood there, all grown up and decked out in the uniform I wore for twenty-eight years. Stood there to make her proud. To make her smile that smile that said, “This is my son. Look at how well I raised him”. The follow on thought “...and rest assured, it was a hell of a lot of work!”…lessened over the years. There I stood…and that smile was gone. The big brave officer and world traveler and all around happy man….wanted the smile and it was gone. The little boy cried.
Over a year later, I emerged from the grief. It took that long to handle it. Was walking wounded….went through life without living it that long. People who knew me, knew it. People who didn’t know me, knew it. Anyone that looked, knew it. The only one I fooled was myself. I stood at my Mother’s grave and hated death. Hated that she was gone. Hated that I had to pretend to be alright.
Heard about Elvis and how he threw himself on his Mother’s casket. He clawed at it. He wanted her out of that box. He wanted to get in that box with her. He hated death at that moment. He hated life at that moment. He was clueless about how he could possibly just keep on living anymore.
Some people wale. Others cry. Some claw at the casket. We each handle death in our own way. That one grave waits for us. The one when we really hate death. The one when death steps into our lives and changes everything.
Death is part of life. Until that one grave arrives, we fool ourselves. After it arrives, we are changed. Changed for the better, actually. That is when we know how much we can love. How much we can care. How much living matters. How much one person can mean to another. That grave arrives and we begin to live. To truly live. To appreciate what we are while we are still here to be it.
It’s only one grave that gets us like that. Our heart has to be really ready to understand life. Once we understand life, we understand death. We walk away from the grave more alive….or more dead. My mom gave me life. Her death showed me how precious life is. One grave. Death is pretty serious stuff. Life is about living fully…once we face death and decide we will live.
"Life.....that time we spend between holes."
Stunningly Flawed
Over two decades since they died, I just truly begin to understand how stunningly flawed my parents were. Blatantly weak addicts to alcohol and more, these blue-collar faces in the crowds of nobodies parented me even when they wanted to shoot me in the face. They honored something about parenting and life that I do my best to live day by day…they never gave up. I learn from them every day. Some by what they did. A lot by what they did not do.
They did not expect anyone to bail them out. When they were behind on bills, they cut back on everything except the essentials. Our clothes were worn until they fell apart and we rarely ever went on vacations or out to eat. The cars were almost always used and in some state of disrepair but they made it to work most of the time and got them where they needed to go. They kept things and used them up. Electrical tape, paper clips, a wedge here, a patch there, and many other temporary fixes kept things until the only option was to replace them. Then they waited a bit longer and paid in cash for the best they could afford.
They fought. Usually about the same things I fought over as a young adult. Kids and money. Too much of one and not enough of the other. They fought hard. Screamed at each other rather than scream at me and then, once they were really sure they vented enough to avoid homicide, they screamed at me. They routinely punished me and stuck to their guns. A week of grounded meant a week of grounded and I could not Eddie Haskell my way out on day four.
They saw through the Eddie Haskell’s of the world. They knew when people were saying what they wanted to hear rather than the truth. They knew when I was saying shit to get my way rather than what I really felt. Then they let me know it. “Never bullshit a bullshitter, kid. I know when you are blowing smoke up my ass.”
For a while, I thought they were cynical about the world. They shook their heads at most of the politicians, bankers, sales people, and preachers. Then they lived their lives, paid their bills, wished they had a bit more than they did, and made ends meet. They ensured I did my homework, picked up my own shit and some of theirs around the house, did my chores, cleaned behind my ears, watched my mouth, and got off my ass and did something rather than sitting around. They also loved me and hoped the hell I ended up better off than them.
That’s the part I am working on. I got the flawed part down part. It is the stunningly flawed part that takes work. I’m doing my best here, Mom and Dad. No bullshit.
~ “Highballs, baseballs, sweat your balls off….having fun yet? ~
Yesterday
Was it that long ago? There was a boy, although he moved just like a man. Maybe more saw him as a boy than he knew but he was man. A big man. A big man making manly decisions. Life decisions. Big decisions. Decisions that were here and now, yesterday. Some questioned the decisions. Others celebrated them. He made them. It was easier for him when they celebrated them but he made them for himself. At least he thought he did. After all, it was yesterday and today is different. Today he might make other decisions. A lot changes as yesterday becomes today and today becomes tomorrow and tomorrows become memories.
Yesterday was 1972. At least it feels like that. Just a kid. On his first plane ride. From the one state that he knew into places he only knew of…..and really didn’t know at all. Jumping into the unknown is exciting once we are confident we jumped into the right unknown. We buy in and then we do it. We jump. We jump from all we know into all we want and need and really don’t know. Sometimes it is a big jump. It was back in 1972.
That yesterday changed all my tomorrows. Yesterdays are like that. Today is a new day and I love my today. I honor and celebrate and remember my yesterdays. I love my today….and I kinda love my tomorrows…..but tomorrow is further away than yesterday and today is really all I have right now. All my yesterdays are right here….even that one way back in 1972. My tomorrow? Ask me about that tomorrow. When tomorrow is today and today is yesterday. Right now……well right now is really damn good. I didn’t see it coming yesterday……but it arrived right on time.
~ “History is so yesterday.” ~
Dirty Details
It was 1981. Seems like yesterday but that is how memories are as life moves, and where you are, becomes where you were. The silver bars on my shoulder declared the rank of first Lieutenant. England was, as England is most Mays…cold, wet, and green, when you could see it. Three years of duty began and the skin behind my ears was wet in more ways than one. Experience is something we have less of than we know until we have enough to know that.
They put me in charge of forty-two people. Me. In charge of almost one fifth of the squadron, twice as many people as had even been in my charge prior and four hundred and twenty-one percent more than some thought me able. Myself included, at times. Welcome aboard, new guy.
New is new. New is a common experience. New comes in classes, jobs, schools, relationships, clubs, neighborhoods. New arrives, turns into known, and becomes remembered as a newer new replaces it. A Military career is loaded with news….right up until it gets old. Being the new guy on a new base in a new country was just part of what was in between the lines of “support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, both foreign and domestic.” I was the new guy….for a lot shorter time than I expected. Thanks to Dirty Details. Dirty Details took me from the new guy to “who the heck is he and where did he come from”, real quick.
Each year the squadron raised money. Funds to help folks out in emergencies, in a pinch, and perhaps even with some morale activities. Dirty Details. Ten cents a vote….the top ten vote getters had to do a dirty detail. Details ranged from washing some windows…in full chem gear, to hand washing a refueler…an R-9, not the much smaller R-7. Seems folks liked the idea of squadron leaders cleaning a floor with a toothbrush while they watched, heckled, and enjoyed. The fund raiser kicked off around Memorial Day, ran through Independence Day, and was followed as closely as the baseball playoffs, presidential elections, and who shot JR. Weekly staff meetings included the current rankings, it was the topic of discussion in the break rooms, and other squadrons around the base asked of the progress. As fundraisers go, Dirty Details was effective and tons of fun to boot.
I was in the country three weeks when it started and remained in the top ten list the entire time. Each week….there I was. Figures. The first time I even hinted at being popular and it was likely because someone wanted me to weed the Orderly Room garden with a knife and fork. Oh well……what price, fame?
When the final votes were cast, my place entitled me to sweep the main parking lot between the buildings. It was to be swept on Friday afternoon just as all the details were to be performed. To be seen by and snickered upon heavily, by the rest of the squadron.
They should have been more specific. If they had, I would not have arranged for the riding sweeper from the Motor Pool. If they had, it would not have benefited me to take a class to learn to drive it and add it to my military license. If they had, it would have been much harder to sweep the parking lot with just a broom. As it was, they still laughed as I rode the sweeper and several looked for loopholes in how they wrote the details. The Squadron Commander did have me sweep other parking lots. Just because. Dirty Details took me from the new guy to the crafty Lieutenant and then to the crafty Captain the next year that washed windows in full chem gear with a sponge and small bucket provided. Seems they were a lot more specific the following years.
That makes for a cute story. A sweet memory. However, there is much more. More than I learned years later and will share in another story. After all, you should know, as Paul Harvey said, the rest of the story.
~ “People will remember stuff you did. Kinda scary, ain’t it?” ~
Altered Course
On the walk this morning, I cracked up. A simple thought hit me. “My life didn’t turn out anything like I planned”. Had to roar with laughter. Nothing like I planned. Not at all. Not where I am, what I am, what I do…..nothing matches what I planned. That is absolutely, positively hysterical.
My life WAS the plan. This is a person who literally did everything listed in my high school yearbook. Literally. “After graduation, Gil will enter the Air Force, furthering his education. Then, get married.” Twenty eight years in the USAF, a PhD, and married almost four decades later…I did what I said.
A military career. Success in Corporate America. A business owner. Three kids. World traveler. Two cars (more sometimes). A nice home in suburbia. Eight grandkids. I lived the American Dream and had a ton of fun doing it.
Today, my life literally did not turn out as I planned. My spiritual path is my foundation, inclusion is more important to me than any flag or ceremony, writing is my passion, healing is my ministry, simple satisfies, the world is my family, saving the planet is a real obligation, and I relearn everything about what is truly important. My annual income plummeted, my savings disappeared, my tax debt skyrocketed, and my travel wings were clipped…….and I am happier than ever.
I have more friends than ever and have only met a few of them face to face. Family expands beyond blood lines. Creative juices burst forth every day. I am more of a hippie than I was at fifteen years old, wiser than I was at my best old self, more like my father than I want to admit, and more like my kids than my kids are like me. I love my life and everyone in it.
In 1972, I headed off into the world and lived the American Dream. It was a wonderful ride. It was as expected and as defined and exactly right….and made me who I am right now. It helped me step out of that mold and become the real me. This ain’t what I planned. My life exceeds whatever I could have imagined. THAT cracks me up.
~ “Todays are better when we see our yesterday’s touching tomorrows.” ~
Credos
I have Credos. One that I said since childhood that is part of my core to this day. “Our only limitations are those we place upon ourselves.”
There was another I lived in actions before I really understood it or put it into words. “I will give my all to what I am part of as long as I am treated fairly.” Those words need some work but the general idea is true. I lived it long before I understood it. It helped me know when to retire from the military and head off to the unknown corporate world. It helped me know when to depart the corporate world and begin a business. It helped me know when to leave the business world and become something new and different. It helps me right now as I work through some life challenges.
Today, I realized I have another Credo. One I stated when someone suggested we renegotiate a debt rather than pay it. I thought of the many things we have witnessed and permitted lately with bailouts and more. I saw the bankruptcies and foreclosures and unemployment and struggles. I saw who was struggling despite their best efforts and who was succeeding despite the dismal failures. My Third Credo appeared. “I celebrate my victories. I eat my mistakes.”
~ “They wanted someone else’s best instead of mine, so I wished them the best.” ~
Lucky Guy
I am an incredibly lucky guy. Incredibly simple, too. Simpler than I knew, slower than I realized, and surprisingly salvageable. Daily self-diagnostics are getting easier….at least for me. Those around me every day probably feel just the opposite. Call me the Weatherman. I am a seasonal feel of an annual flow delivered with daily doses of variability that changes every year. Maybe that is why folks kinda check the temperature to see what my day holds. They likely want to use a rectal thermometer…and wish those gauges came in bigger sizes. Lots bigger. I can live with that. I can be a pretty big asshole.
Being known as an asshole is a lot easier than being one and not knowing it. Would hate to be one and not even know it. We need assholes. We are all assholes at some time or another. Those that think they are not assholes are full of shit. I can be a really big asshole. That’s ‘cause I can take a lot of shit. Maybe it is because I can give a lot of shit. Who knows? Who knows if we are coming or going? Not me. So I try to figure shit out each day and be a little less of an asshole. Not sure it is working but it feels pretty good.
Changed my diet once I figured out where the food came from and what I was eating without really understanding. That helped my asshole-ness, at least on the inside. Took longer to digest things. Big things like the world, the environment, and spirituality. That slowed down a lot of bad shit for me. Backed away from consumerism. That helped the intestinal fortitude for my body and my soul. Cleared the air about what is mine and what belongs to others and that helped my own back yard a lot. Started sharing a lot more of my stuff but did my best to ensure it was the good stuff and not the shit. Really cool cause folks give me a lot less shit now. Guess you do get what you give. I am a lucky guy.
Folks care about me. Some even love me. I see the good in the world and the good in the world is beginning to see me. They see me even though I can be a really big asshole. Maybe the further away I get, the easier I am to see. Yoo-hoo. Here I am. Way out here in left field. In these words. Way over here….a strange visitor from some other planet. Disappearing into my words and becoming truth from the inside out.
Maybe my body really is just the vessel and I am much more. Much more than an asshole walking around in the flesh. My body becomes a lot less important the more my soul realizes it was stuck in an asshole for quite a while. Sometimes my body is a temple. Other times it is an amusement park. Sometimes it is walking, talking asshole. I am more than this body. Not sure what but it is bigger than this bag of flesh.
My Sister-In-Law said I did not have to worry about what to do with my body when I die. She said I would be beamed up to the Mother Ship. Cool. In due time, I guess. Some more shit to clean up here on Mother Earth. Lots of assholes can do a lot of damage without even knowing they are assholes. This asshole is cleaning up his own shit. Lucky I started before the Mother Ship came to get me. Don’t beam me up yet. Maybe there IS intelligent life down here. Let it begin with me. I ain’t just your average, everyday asshole any more. Lucky for me.
~ “The more grateful I am, the more I have.” ~
Christmas Card Zen
Christmas Cards are a Zen thing, an annual gauge of gratitude and change that crosses time and space; deeply spiritual, and peaceful. A link to all that was and all that is. A moment of reflection, connection, and solace.
Mom used to write them out. I don’t think Dad ever did any. Mom wrote them and loved the look of her own handwriting. She had a right to do so. Her handwriting was pretty. Fancy. Penmanship that lived up the name. Cursive writing. The Palmer method. A dying art form. Mom took pride in each letter and each word. There was a flow to it. Such writing is a gift. A gift of self. Talent honed to art. As the years progressed, her handwriting was a bit less than it had been and she knew it. Yet, she continued to write in sweet cursive. She personalized each Christmas card. She liked to write…to pen…..she focused on the writing. I have a bundle of letters from her from across the years. Each in her own hand. Her own hand. A hand stilled as all hands are. Those letters are mine forever. She gave them to me….one letter and one fancy handwritten word at a time. I think of them each year while writing out my Christmas Cards. Mom comes to mind right at the outset. Christmas cards were her thing. They are my thing now.
Christmas cards for me have changed as much as I have. They used to be lots of red and green. Santa and Reindeers pranced in and out in with whimsical fare. My cards were like me…secular on the outside, something much deeper inside.
Things changed. I changed. I learned. There is more than one reason for this season. My sentiments expanded over the years. It is now about Yule, Kwanzaa, Solstice, Equinox, Hanukkah, Christmas, and Celebrations of this sweet season. I honor so much more than Christmas and Christmas becomes so much more for me. It is about humanity, spirituality, love, peace, goodwill towards people, and a world living in harmony. It is about what makes us different as well as what we have in common.
Along the way, my Christmas cards became Christmas letters. Some updates and the like. Humor, sharing, and touching. I factored in things like the environmental impact of the materials, the act of writing rather than buying sentiments, and what feels right for me. Each year is a bit different. On all levels. Just like I am. The card writing and sending honors my past as well as my present.
The cards go to people around the globe. Interesting mix of people linked by blood, experience, choice, circumstance, and more. People I worked with……with. Really worked with. Secretaries, executives, partners, co-workers, and so much more. My Dad would like the people on my Christmas list…..and they would like him. That makes me feel good as his son. Family. Friends. A place where that line blurs and the neighborhood is global as well as personal.
I handwrite the names and sign. Sometimes in cursive. More so each year. It feels personal. Right. In the moment of writing each card, I feel the people. Who they are, where they are, who they were, how we met, how we know each other, and so much more. It is my moment with them. It is them being with me this holiday and last and next. It is a moment of connection.
Life is a blessed thing. It is filled with people we care about and then care about even more when we open to know them and let them know us. Once a year, it is my ritual to touch and remember that in the form of Christmas Cards. It was a tradition I witnessed as a child, foster as an adult, and cherish more and more. A tradition a bit more fluid as time eases my rigidity.
Used to write the cards beginning on the Friday after Thanksgiving and have them completed by that Sunday. Set your clocks and calendar. It was sacrosanct. It was my way. Alpha…Master Planner….Man in Charge. A rock solid, effective, efficient, personal way that said as much about me as anything in life. Now, it is less about the when and more about the how and what. The process begins on that Friday after Thanksgiving. Turkey Club Day, now Tofurkey Club day….and the first day of Christmas Card ritual. Pretty much. The letter moves into partial light and is tweaked a bit until it feels right. It is more about the right feel than a schedule.
The cards will get out right on time though and reach the right people right on schedule. Things that cross time and space have their own timetable. Sweet and free-flowing testimony to all that came before and all that is right now. It is a holiday tradition that reminds me how very lucky I am.
Christmas cards begin my holiday season. A gift to me. The gift of remembering. The gift of gratitude. The gift of peace and awe at the many blessings of this moment and all moments. Wow……I give myself the first gift of the holiday season and then send it to everyone on my mailing list. Make a note of that. I will.
~ “Celebrate compassion and spread peace.” ~
Casting My Wheel
It is time. Perhaps the moon is in the seventh house and Jupiter is aligned with Mars. It is time for me to cast my wheel and understand how I am wired. I cast it this day. Anew. I cast it before yet understand now there was more to learn and know and feel and, most importantly, trust. Here is my wheel with my archetypes in their houses. Here is, for my own edification, what makes me tick in the way that pushes me to do what I do.
First House. Aries. Ego and Personality. First and Third Chakras.
Herein resides the Shape Shifter. This is the house of identity, self-esteem, and awareness of ego. How fitting. Now I understand why when people ask me what I am, my answer is, “I am what I need to be.” Explains a lot about how I merge into environments. Explains a lot to me about me.
Second House. Taurus. Life Values. Second Chakra.
This is the house in which we ask, “What is mine?” This is our relationship to the land. It is what we want out of life. It is what power is essential to interacting with physical life. In this house, my archetype of Guide feels and must rise above the physical form of attachment to manifestations of the physical world. This is the house of possession.
I see why it is easy for me to point the way and have others move on. Others that I love and enjoy and treasure. It is my life’s value to have pointed the way and served. Interesting insights about what I hold as mine. A quote from “Sacred Contracts’ about this house helped me. “…the ability to love unconditionally is antithetical to attachment.” Sounds like the ultimate version of letting something go. If it comes back, it is yours. If it does not, it never was.
Third House. Gemini. Self-expression and Siblings. Third and Fifth Chakras.
The house of self-expression and the archetype Saboteur resides here. This is the house of self-esteem as well as self-expression. It contains the lessons inherent in learning about the causes and effects of your choices—how you wield your power.
The challenge in this house is to become conscious of your own motivations. The book “Sacred Contracts” screams at me in this house as it says only two genuine motivations stir the psyche: the empowerment or disempowerment of the self and others. My Saboteur has a lot to learn. It is time to show myself in my truth.
Fourth House. Cancer. Home. First and Fourth Chakras.
The archetype in this house has the strongest influence on the foundation of my emotional nature. When the Seeker showed in this house, I basically said, “Well, Duh!”. The theme of home here includes the place or places. It is broader though. It is the true residence of the heart. It is the deepest passion in life. I have been home in many places. I seek and then I am home in the seeking.
The challenge of the fourth house is to complete the unfinished business of the childhood years and to establish healthy homes for ourselves as adults. I feel my childhood years and celebrate how blessed I was. As I mature, I begin to understand how very good my parents were at being parents. Yet, today I understand there was something missing. Something I sabotaged a bit on my own then and now. I needed to be there. Just to be there.
Fifth House. Leo. Creativity and Good Fortune. Sixth Chakra.
Hello, there. Time to meet my Divine Child archetype. The one that believes everything is linked to everything else and we all came from, head to, and deserve joy. The Divine Child resides in the house that rules creative expression, sexuality, children, and good fortune. This is also the house of love and spontaneity, of abundance and opportunity. How fitting that my Divine Child is in the house that represents the strengths that I should most rely on to make this happen.
Maybe that is why I feel so many tantrums lately. Inside for the most part but shown in mere hints of their intensity. Perhaps this is why I shut down and struggle explaining what I just know and believe and do. I pout and hide and stomp my foot a bit. At the other kids that should know, at the Grown Ups that should make it easier on me, and on all things that just feel so hard and should be easier since it is right. My Divine Child believes in things so wonderful and marvelous that I want to dance at what comes, even while being clueless about what comes.
Sixth House. Virgo. Occupation and Health. Second Chakra.
Imagine the joy being a professional Storyteller. To be the one that others listen to since you share with them things they need to know and may already know but they just like hearing it from you. They gather as you share the stories. Some are true tales. Others are fancified fiction. Each informs. Each shares. Welcome to my life.
My Storyteller archetype lives in the house that is focused on survival and how I seek out paths of security. My Storyteller partners with my Shapeshifter a lot. Sometimes the poet romancing with words, other times the reporter of how things are.
This house is involved with money and values as well. My Storyteller has a lot to say about those things and how they affect us on a daily basis. This house can and does bridge to the seventh house and “becomes part of what you bring into your our partnerships.” Well, well, well. Live and learn.
Seventh House. Libra. Marriage and Relationships. Second and Fourth Chakras.
The house of intimate conversations. The house that is the prime territory for acts of betrayal. The house that corresponds to the energies of the second and fourth charkas that regulate money, values, and matters of the heart. Who lives here in this house for this male that knows and feels love so very deeply? Who is the one that calls this house home? My victim archetype. Lots of lessons for me to process in that message.
Here I must heed the wise words from “Sacred Contracts” about this house. “One of the healthiest gifts we can give ourselves is to constantly monitor our reasons for being critical and controlling. The challenge is to allow others to be themselves regardless of our fear or insecurity. Maintain your own core relationship to yourself and live according to the truth that the greatest gift you can give another is a fully healthy self—your own.”
Eighth House, Scorpio, Other People’s Resources, Second and Sixth Chakras.
The eighth house rules the use of money in the public arena. This house and its emotional nature must be understood because money, sexuality, and secret knowledge are seductions that can block the pursuit of divine potential. It is difficult to remain emotionally centered and empowered where financial and sexual matters are concerned. This house and archetype may be a great source of strength. The archetype matched to the eighth house is the one that is the guide into your fears, challenges, and strengths when dealing with money, inheritance, and sexuality.
Here is my Teacher archetype. Teacherplus, to be exact. Working to balance what is done with other’s resources and all they offer this male trying to do what is right. I will remember that in this house we can discover the magnificent force of our strength and courage during out most vulnerable experiences in life. Teaching is a good thing. Learning makes for even better teaching. Learning away here, boss, learning away.
Ninth House, Sagittarius. Spirituality, Seventh Chakra.
Our crown chakra, where we are most connected to the Divine. Sagittarius rules spirituality, religion, travel, and wisdom. This is where we find our boldness and independence for quests we choose. The challenge is this house is to manage the spiritual ego. Here is this house is my Mystic archetype.
This archetype feels connected. Knows things, senses things. In “Sacred Contracts”, the Mystic is mentioned as one of the most coveted archetypes…right up until folks review how arduous the mystical path is. It is cautioned that this archetype should be accepted only if you are ready to pay the price in blood, sweat, and tears. Yep.
Tenth House, Capricorn, Our Highest Potential, Fifth and Seventh Chakras.
The energy of this house pushes you to be all that you can be in your physical world and your spiritual life. “What is the highest potential of your compassionate self or your generosity? What is the your highest potential when it comes to empowering another? What is the highest potential you can strive for with your talent? Your highest potential is what your Sacred Contract is prompting you to recognize and realize…The Archetype that resides in this house is your entryway to deciphering the choices open to you and the quality of your motivations.”
Here resides my Prostitute archetype. The one that knows when we sell our value too cheaply. The prostitute engages lessons of integrity and the sale or negotiation of one’s integrity or spirit due to fears. Imagine being something so valuable that, in the very words we use to describe such things, we become something that money can’t buy. Priceless.
Eleventh House, Aquarius, Relationship with the World, Fourth and Sixth Chakras.
“Your viewpoint about life is generally connected to this house…Optimism or pessimism about the future of humanity is an extension of the spiritual energy of the eleventh house.” There is much to be learned in this house and of the archetype that resides here. In the words of the Buddhist patriarch Bodhi dharma, “I am but a finger pointing the moon. Don’t look at me; look at the moon.” In the eleventh house resides my Mentor archetype…symbolic of how I view the power of my spirit in relation to the whole of life.
The difference between Mentor and Teacher is largely one of degree. Perhaps I would like to teach the world to sing. Showing them how, might be more appropriate.
Twelfth House, Pisces, The Unconscious, Sixth and Seventh Chakras.
“The twelfth house rules the unconscious mind as well as our innermost fears…intuitive abilities are part of the energy of this house…Intuition is our primal sense…The shadow side of the twelfth house can feel very much like a gothic chamber of horrors precisely because it is linked to the numerous fragments of our psyche. Many of our addictions and compulsions are rooted in our deepest fears of being abandoned, which thrive in the shadow of this house.”
I should not be surprised that my slave resides here. Has been there all along and calling me from a place well beyond anything I understand or know in this realm. I thought I decided to be a slave. Looks like I was there long before I arrived here and will be there long after this place we call life.
~ “The Enriched get richer.” ~
Who Were Those Masked Children?
“Keep your Toe jam off the marbles.” Things I never thought I’d say moved to the column of things said, thanks to time this week with my Grandkids. Veni, Vidi, Vici, grandchildren style. Events moved on their own accord and the last four or so days, it really is a bit of a blur, had the Grandkids as daily fixtures while their Mom and Dad tended to life issues. The grandkids inspire me and teach me.
The last week has been filled with learning. My daughter’s children taught me to appreciate. There is a character in Dean Koontz’s book “Odd Thomas” that lives in gratitude. When she wants a chocolate ice cream cone, she has it three days later. She waits for what she craves and appreciates it all the more. She came to mind when I gave my grandkids a lifesaver. One single lifesaver. They are taught to eat healthy and sugared treats are rare for them. Hence, they are savored. One especially active day I gave them more than one. Three to be exact. My Grandson, Ethan, was awed. “Wow. We had two already, Pop-Pop.” He gets it. Gratitude. Sometimes things are even sweeter when we wait for them. Gratitude is a lesson they live and I learn more and more. These kids appreciate.
They hear the music. Really hear it. It is there and heard and danced to, even in car safety seats. Especially Annie, the oldest of the three girls. She digs music, dance, and all things associated therewith. According to her latest report, her taste in music is already well honed and quite insightful, even at five years old. Elvis is her favorite artist. She gets far too little Elvis when her Mom drives. She gets a bunch when Pop-Pop is at the wheel. I enjoyed the dance-ability of “Burning Love” more this week than ever prior thanks to her gyrations. She helped me hear the music even more.
I learned about limits and how instinctive it is to test them. Meghan knows the rules and heads for the grey as much as possible. Meghan knows when Mom says enough is enough that enough is really enough. When she is told something will be taken away or such, it will happen. My Daughter is a bit like her Father in that regard. Meghan is a kid. A smart kid. She heads for the grey, tests it, and sees where the new barriers are. “The pink lipstick is off the table.” Another thing I said aloud and meant. Meghan tested with a mini-tantrum and heard, “The TV is next. It is up to you.” She settled in and earned time playing the marble game with her Pop-Pop. Her toe cleaning in tandem was a bit much and resulted in, well, you read that already.
From my first toe jam on marbles experience to a revisit to Peanut Butter and Jelly for lunch, the time with the grandkids was literally jam-packed. (Come on, even you have to laugh at that!). There were trips to the Air Force Museum (where a new room was discovered and a return trip already promised), the library with its wonderful games, computers, and even books, the playground on the other side of the field, and the field itself. (Yes, there is a free theme in those places…Pop-Pop is broke.) There was dancing and singing, stories, too many fruit snacks, too much TV, and the long way on drives so naps could be had. Meghan learned to do two thumbs up and say, “That’s what I’m talking ‘bout, baby”. Ethan reported his lunch choices from school, there were two choices every day. The one he remembered was the one he ate.
Ethan also showed me there are still cowboy hats out there. I wore one when I was a kid. Along with six-shooters and Texas talking, it was the Wild West just East of the Garden State Parkway. With that hat, I was a cowboy. Wore it anywhere and every time possible. Turned out Ethan has a cowboy hat. His comes in the form of a Storm Trooper mask and costume. Same premise though. He wore it in the back seat of the car, on the porch, to the dinner table, and anywhere and every time possible. He was a Storm Trooper (although I said he was a Cloudy Warrior and had to grow a bit more to be an actual Storm Trooper). The Wild West comes with light sabers now. I made a point of teaching him how to gallop when we went on a walk to the field where my dirt fort is. (He did not have his Storm Trooper mask on at the time but that would have work just as well. I can do light sabers.)
The kids still eat Cheerios just like I did as a kid. Sometimes from a bowl, other times from the box, and sometimes right off the table. They did not know Cheerios sponsored the Lone Ranger on Saturday mornings just before Rin Tin Tin (Shredded Wheat), Roy Rogers (Quik) and Sky King (Nabisco). I guess that wasn’t that interesting or important to them. Instead I combined something new to my spirituality, energy, Zen, new wave, what the hell is he into now, regiment, and their cereal choice and introduced them to Ti Cheerios. We moved the circles (how Zen fitting is that?) slowly through the air, parting the horse’s mane in tribute to heroes from yesteryear, and fed the youngest, Gracie, a Cheerio at a time. We took turns, shared, and played nice. New wave, old principles of just getting along.
I got along with them really well. They give hugs and kisses any time. Perhaps it is me. They just felt the need and gave what was needed. There was one moment when all of them except Gracie were on the porch playing with their cousin, Will. I had the door closed and was watching them through the window with Gracie. Gracie was on my lap, I was on the floor, and the two of us enjoyed the show that played together with Lego’s on the porch. At one point, Annie looked at the window where Gracie and I sat, crossed the porch, opened the door to the kitchen, peeked around the door, and said, “I love you, Pop-Pop”, closed the door, and returned to Legoland. She must have known I was hungry. She fed me. I needed it and it was a hell of a lot better than PB & J on its best day. It’s what’s for dinner. When we eat right.
~ “There were bugs as big as my hand!” (Ethan Wood, my grandson) ~
Pinecones and Pebbles
My granddaughter is amazingly inefficient. I invited the two-year-old over to help me in the yard. Time to pick up pinecones and pull some weeds and be together. We started off with her doing pinecones and me pulling weeds. That worked for a bit. Then she wanted to sing about the pinecones so we made up “The Pine Cone Song”.
“Pinecone.
Pinecone.
Pine. Pine. Cone.’
Then she wanted some fruit snacks so she went inside. She came back a while later and decided to help again but the worm got in the way. We stopped to see the worm and found other worms. She likes worms. We played with and watched the worms for a while. She wanted more fruit snacks so the worms were left alone and I kept picking up pinecones, singing, “The Pinecone Song” as I did. She returned and decided she was cold so she took off her jacket. That one slowed me down for a moment so I sat with her while she counted to twenty and did her ABCs. She went inside for a drink and waved at me through the windows while I picked up more pinecones. When she came back, she said she was done working. She decided it was time to play in the pebbles so I played in the pebbles. Then it was time to let her hear the pebbles so we walked the pebbled path and listened to them sing their crunchy song. We marched and talked to the pebbles while they talked to us.
“Pebbles. Pebbles. Pebbles, pebbles, pebbles.” A new tune, different than the pinecone song. This was a marching tune. Of course, while marching and swinging our arms like the Royal Guards. That worked for a while and then she decided we needed to take a walk around the block so off we went. She pointed to the flowers and how they matched her purple shirt. We walked a bit more and I pointed to some flowers and said how pretty they were. She corrected me. “Those not flowers. Those dandelions.”
Now she is playing a video game, quite put off that we do not have Nintendo. The yard did get picked up. So did I. My granddaughter is amazingly inefficient. I can learn a lot from her.
~ “When it comes to saving the world, our children are the why….as well as the how.” ~
Ants Then, Train Rides Now
Watched ants one morning. Been a while since I watched ants. There were only a few ants but it was enough. Enough to remind me of the ant watching I wrote about in “Jersey Sure” and how that ant watching moved a chapter from where it was headed to where it went and I was just along for the ride. So I went for a ride in my mind while I watched the ants and realized that Thomas the Train is cool while a train ride could be even better. Why Thomas? How about a ride from here to there on a tram? Kids would remember that. They will smile every time they saw the tram forever after. They would remember the day on the tram and the ice cream and the time and that is memory that sustains.
We tend to overdo and then the bills get overdue and we have to do other things rather than the things we would like to do with the people we would like to do things with but that wait for us while we do things to make sure we have the cash to the things we think they want to do. How about a train ride from here to there and back again? How about some time watching ants? Would have been cool to have my Mom or my Dad watch those ants by that milk machine eat that Ring Ding long ago. Would have made that chapter go in a whole different direction. That would be cool. Sometimes we do too much and miss so much in the doing. Sometimes we overdo.
So I will be taking each grandkid for a ride on the train. One by one. Looking out the window and seeing through their eyes. Just because. Choo-Choo, Pop-Pop. Choo-Choo.
~ “There are more anthills then there are picnics in life.” ~
Just Another Day
Just beyond the wants, I found the clues to giving. Had to feel the restrictions of what I could not do. Owned the ache. Owned the pain. Even owned the shame. Pushed through each to understand the message. Thought I understood it and then my Higher Power pushed me harder. Made it more of a struggle to feel right. Ensured I felt the crush of all that it is to understand the lesson…beyond the obvious.
So I went into it and found compromise. The compromise felt as compromises do. Second rate. Second best. Less than. Settling. That was the beginning of the lesson so the compromise was peeled back for more truths. In those truths, I felt gifts already given. In those truths were insights about really sharing. In those truths was the joy of what is right. In those truths was peace.
I had a Hallmark moment as letters were written to honor days of birth. Then there were moments of bliss as gifts were used to capture lightning in a bottle for any that wished to have such energy. This day was another day of humbling. This day was another day of acceptance. This day was another day of surrender. This day was another day of joy and Magic.
~ “I offer the gifts that are mine to share.” ~
Dig It!
I looked for my relevance and it wasn’t there. Not the life changing, midlife, see the bald guy in the Vette kinda thing. Just a quiet inside awareness of life choices and their long-term impact. Right age. (Midlife crisis in the 50s. Either we are just bad at math or eternal optimists thanks to Willard Scott). Right time. Right place. It seems easy for me. To reflect and say quietly…,”Wow, blew that one.” Then think more and watch rather than feel the sting of “What was I thinking?” Interesting to be so deep into the process that is lived as well as observed.
Years of changes helped. Some made. Some foisted upon the sometimes slow to grasp the evidence at hand believer in SOURCE that I am. Years of preparation. Broke me. Yet I remained intact. My life was just broken into a million little pieces. Shiny bobbles that I looked at one by one. Gems that assembled into something more façade than real in reflection. They shined quite beautifully. Felt wonderful in my hands covered with the eyeballs of hindsight. Understood the beauty in each one. Mistakes shown. Wisdom spread in the wreckage as well. The gambit of the priceless along with the worthless collected by the clueless.
Seems this is when folks get bitter. Dive into bottles. Hide inside drugs. Get really bad haircuts. Lose their fashion sense. End up in places with “Yeah, I belong” on their faces and a “Holy Shit” feeling in their gut. Run for the borders of all they know. That is the stereotype. The expected. Woooo Hooooo. I ain’t typical. Not this time. A ten-year head start might be my key to being different. Left the military a decade ago and entered the world I had prepared for and prepared. Lived the dream of the Defender of Truth, Justice, and the American Way. Exited the guard post and headed into the bank vault. Yahoo, Bobba Looey. Where are my withdrawal slips? Time to make some money and live the dream.
Didn’t feel greedy. Didn’t feel wrong. Didn’t feel disconnected from reality. In fact, I felt damn good. Had lots of stuff and got more stuff and the money was rolling in fast. Almost as fast as I could spend it. Alright, not that fast. Still, money would come so bills were not an issue. Could liquidate if I had to and that meant I was solid. Had enough savings and investments to pay all the bills so the ride was safe and sound. Worked hard, spent fast, and traveled tons.
Things changed. Drastically. Forever. In ways beyond my expectations that tested my limitations and challenged my foundation. My foundation turned out to be pretty damn solid. (Man, it is good I was well laid. A good foundation comes in handy when your world crumbles to pieces). Turned out my foundation was just well hidden by the stuff I thought meant living. Had to excavate. Had to dust off the remnants of my monetary Pompey.
I am a living archeological dig. Can you dig it? My logic went astray. Arch-logic. Bizarro thinking that become my reality. A life inside the dream I defended and then pursued with vigor and even righteousness. A life not relevant because it was disconnected. Disconnected from nature and the rest of the world…at least the world that did not have unlimited resources and the innate right to everything on the planet.
The dig is a work in progress. After all, the foundation survived and that is important. My life went to pieces, my world expanded, and my spirit soars. Digging out from under and adjusting to the light is a bit like birthing…..it happens at its own speed. Good to know the foundation is ready all the same. Rocky starts, Rocky Horrors, Rocky Road Ice Cream, Rocky and Bullwinkle.......all go better on solid foundations.
~ “My words expose my soul and I stand naked to the world.” ~
Coma
How long was your coma? Mine was forty-two years long. The answers were back there. Behind me. Waiting for me to wake up, catch up, and do something. Waiting for me to do the things I knew were right in 1968 when I was fifteen years old. I am that man now. The one I thought I was the year Elvis did his Comeback Special. Today, I am that man. Doing those things that were right back then. Those things are still right now. It is just the stuff in between that screwed things up as bad as they are now.
Things were screwed up back then too. It just would have been easier if we did what we said we were going to do back then. Those things we have to do now. The tree hugging, fuck the politicians and the machine in Washington, and who the fuck needs war things that had kids born under the red, white, and blue burn the colors in front of their parents, teachers, leaders, cops and robbers, and whoever the heck else said to just shut up and color. Those things we started and then let fizzle once we got laid regular and got a real job that paid real money.
Then they threw money at us. Money out there. On Wall Street. In Wal-Mart. They put our backs up against the wall and hit us right in our wallets. Jeans got tighter and then looser and more designer. Flowers went from in our hair to out there in those parks where bums slept at night and drugs oozed like memories that haunted us. Haunted us with “there but the grace of god” bullshit and “shit it just might be easier in those parks” conflict of purpose and place and gotta get to work cause the bills ain’t gonna pay themselves justifications. They threw money at the problem and the problem was us and the problem went away. Into a sugar and credit card induced coma that kissed the 70s hello and raped the planet with a vengeance. It never looked back. We sleep walked the rest of the century and heard Mayan whispers of a wakeup call that sounded a lot like Abbie Hoffman, the Momma and Papas, and Dylan at his best. We opened our eyes and voted for a black man that felt like we did at our best. He was beat up and sent to his room with the threat of no dessert after one term.
Now the screaming has started. Luckily we are screaming louder than the idiots who want to pretend we didn’t fall asleep at the switch. Enough of us are screaming inside where we woke up first and realize that Rip Van Winkle ain’t that far from the truth. We took our eyes off the ball, let them keep their fingers on the button, and now we have to pay the piper. Peace, love, dove, motherfuckers. We got things to do. Things that feel like 1968. Only this time I will do them, am doing them, and don’t fucking care who likes it or who doesn’t. My coma was forty-two years long. My hair didn’t survive the trip but I like the whole shaved head, beard, kinda look. Maybe I should have done that in 1968. Oh, well. Better late than never.
~ “Once I woke up, I was amazed at how deep my sleep was.” ~
Angry Enough To Eat Corn Muffins
I am angry enough to eat corn muffins. That was the lesson of my walk this November day. Started out feeling anger. Went to it and peeled it back as my feet moved the path I choose. Peeled it back. Through whining, my own and all that I hear and feel. Through self-centered actions, again mine as well as those witnessed. Through drama and whirlwinds and vortex of frenzied nothingness and worries about things not yet but might be…personal and global. Peeled it back to facts, to understand the anger.
Here are some facts for my 2008:
Income slashed by over 60%
Began the year with three cars, end it with one.
Life savings lost almost 30% in value.
So I processed that a bit and realized the depth of the change. Understood why whining annoyed me more and more. Understood why drama about inconsequential, superficial crap lost me at the first syllable. Then I realized even that feeling was negative so went to the positive to recharge.
Here are some more facts for my 2008:
Have one vehicle and it runs.
Have a steady flow of cash to meet needs for shelter and food.
Have medical insurance and good health.
Have enough resources to liquidate savings and pay off debt in 2009.
Have time to write, minister, learn, share, and touch on things vital to the challenges facing us as a Nation, a species, and a planet.
Then I felt the country and myself. Addicts. Americans are addicts and our government is as well. Addicted to self-indulgence. Our debt as a nation and as individuals is merely the fall out of our self-indulgence. Thousands of dollars on Christmas that most do not have and then wonder how the heck they can pay for it. Weddings that cost tens of thousands that are bacchanals of self-centeredness. Smokers and drinkers that celebrate choice at the price of health and family. A nation whose biggest addiction, sugar, is hardly mentioned. An addiction that does more health damage than cigarettes, guns, and Chili Cook Offs combined. Yet we sit on our fat asses, buy gym memberships, price liposuction, hang our clothes on the Nautilus, eat our snacks, and then wash it down with a soda.
I went into all that anger inside of me and owned it. That was when I thought about corn muffins. I like corn muffins. I do not eat many of them. I prefer Pepperidge Farm Milano’s, Sara Lee Pound Cake, Keebler Fudge Sticks, and anything chocolate. Yes, I have a sweet tooth. Yes, I am one of the millions of sugar addicts. So I thought about corn muffins and the anger went away. Will eat more of them. Will have tea with honey and corn muffins rather that coffee with my secret ingredient and a few slices of pound cake.
My walk reminded me how lucky I am. My walk also reminded me that either I am part of the solution or I am part of the problem. This planet is in peril. Americans and this country represent the best and the worst of the human species. We either make better choices right now on things we do every day or the Ice Caps continue to melt, Polar Bears move closer to extinction, and our children’s children will know we failed to conquer our addictions. They will know because of how they are forced to live and struggle every day. Yep…I was angry…angry enough to eat corn muffins. The anger was mine. What I do about it and with it is my choice. I let the anger go. It festers if I keep it inside and then surfaces in other ways. So I let it go and will enjoy a few more corn muffins and a few less cookies. I will do some other things too. Every little thing makes a difference. I am going to my best that my little things make a good difference.
~ “Catastrophe overshadowed by the long-term consequences of lesser choices.” ~
Exercising My Option
There used to be many options. Based on all the advice, there still is. Inside the box are many. Go back to work and pay for using my existing resources to honor obligations. Be taxed on that as I do. Declare bankruptcy. Say it is impossible to pay for what I did and let others inherit the burden. Borrow more money and slide deeper into debt. That is insanity and I am outside that insanity and in recovery now. Beg. Pride kept me from that street corner for a while and responsibility keeps me from it now. Barely. Suicide. As my daughter advised, that is a permanent solution to a temporary problem. Inside the very system I lived as the American Dream, those options and a few lesser ones are still on the table.
Outside the box, there are even more options. Leave the country. The damage already spread globally spreads even faster now so I burnt that bridge already. Armed rebellion. That feels dark and risks destroying that light left inside what this country was and can be. Declare myself victim and hero and wail to the world. That would be the ultimate misuse of my gifts. Indentured servitude---sell my services strictly to pay taxes. Feeding a system where debt increases a million dollars a second and we owe over $80,000 per worker is irresponsible. Blame. Looked in the mirror and pushed through that denial. Went to those options and more as the situation slid further and further into impossibility.
The further I step outside the insanity, the clearer things become. I shall exercise the one option that sustains my beliefs and values. Trust. Trust that freedom begins with me. Trust that I can do the right things by honoring my obligations while living within existing resources. I shall state the facts, live by example, and be even more in the process.
There is much more I can do to increase my self-reliance, understand the impact of my everyday choices, contribute to global survival, and live in joy. So I shall give and give some more and then see how to give even more. It is my choice to be thankful for what is and share to balance the world beginning in my own back yard. I owe it to those that taught me by example, to those that come after me, and to myself.
~ “Wrong brought as right comes at great price.” ~
Final Approach
People that fly planes into the side of buildings and kill are not heroes. They are victims. Victims of desperation, greed, blame, and their own truths. The saddest part of the lesson for me was how much I understood the desperation.
Desperation of feeling worthless. Desperation of crushed beliefs. Desperation of choices that cried of failure, loss, and shame.
I was in that level of desperation just over a week ago. Shock that all I worked for was gone. Fear that there were few options. Disappointment and blame for a system that defied my understanding and felt heartless and out of control. A level of desperation deeper than any I ever knew.
I reached out to the Utah State Tax Auditors. Needed to speak to a person. Someone real. Someone with a heartbeat. Pleaded to understand how this could be. How could this be? In the conversation, I stated how desperate I was. Twice. Black and white truths. Said the options were “Bankruptcy or suicide”. Later, stated that same thing as “…driving me to bankruptcy or a bullet to the brain.” Said those words. Aloud and loud.
Did I want to blame the IRS (have more work ahead with them) and Utah State Tax folks? Heck yes. Yet I didn’t. Couldn’t. They were following policies and procedures that are approved and are recognized as the law of the land. This land. My land. I let this happen. If anyone is to blame for what happens to me right now it is me. I fed a machine I did not understand, did not care to understand, and which now runs amok spending more than it makes with no end in sight. I basically help create and then fed a machine that continues to live as I once did. Spend your way to safety, buy your happiness, enough is not enough, and as long as we are making money things will work out just fine. Money is the key to everything. I let this happen.
Spoke with my daughter a week or so ago and she brought up a politician that recently died and was on the way to canonization in Washington. She asked a wonderfully insightful question. “On what planet is someone like that a hero?”
“On what planet is someone like that a hero?” On what planet, indeed. On what planet are people so desperate that they kill others to make a statement? On what planet does a person at a state or federal agency hear talk of suicide over tax situations and that is business as usual? On what planet, do we measure our own worth by how much money we have?
Blame abounds. Look around. People blame the Government. People blame the President. People blame the previous President. Republicans blame the Democrats. Democrats blame the Republicans. There are Tea Parties of blame. Fingers point, hands raise, and fists clench. In blame. The air is chockfull of and choked with negativity.
Blame begins in the mirror. The mirror of your own truth. The mirror that reminded me that I was happy in my ignorance as long as I had money to spend. The mirror that said go ahead and blame, bozo……and get that shit over with. Then take responsibility for yourself and get on with life.
My heroes do not fly planes into the side of buildings. My heroes accept responsibility, accept harsh lessons about life, and clean up their own messes. There is sadness in me today for what drove that man to what he did. I am disappointed I understand his desperation. I am disappointed things got to this point. People died yesterday. Each of them was a victim. A victim of what we have become. A victim of what I let happen. On what planet is any of that right?
Maybe I am more like Superman than I knew. Maybe I am a strange visitor from another planet. I don’t understand how I let this one get so far off course. Superman believed in Truth, Justice, and The American Way. I am with you, my Kryptonian brother from another Mother. Let’s tweak it a bit. Truth, Justice, and let’s all work together to save this planet before it’s too late. There ain’t a They. There is a me. There is a you. There is an us. So let’s get to work. See you in the phone booth. Simple Fi!
~ “Saving the World. How to Start?
Less is at least something. More is the goal. Something is enough.
Change the world….begin with yourself.” ~
Unknowing
I am deeper into my unknowing. On strike against what I was. Monkeys don’t need metaphors. As a primate of some order in what used to be the chaos of my own creation, metaphors smell a bit different. Perhaps it’s all the bullshit I used to buy and eat and work to have more of. It oozes from my pores and stinks up my metaphors. The world reeks of it right now. My world. This brave new world where I am a stranger in a strange land just off the map of all I knew. New smells. The decay of the old stinks and the decomposition is fertile. Something blossoms as the flash bulbs flash forward through what I pictured as truth. Flowers smell better once we stop flinging bullshit in our own backyard. I am on strike against my own bullshit.
The strike is really easy. Question everything. Slow as all get out but it works for me. Question everything. Everything I did, knew, learned, and lived. Question everything that ever was. Question everything I do. Each turn of the key each time I even sit behind the wheel of the last of my herd of noble chariot beasts. Must I drive? What’s the cost? Where did all this come from? Why not walk? Why not just not go? Why today? What’s it all about, Alfie? Was Alfie really mad? Did Alfie really look like that freaky guy on the wall of the Palace in Asbury Park all those years ago? Do I need to drive? What drives me to drive? What drove me to drink? What feeds my soul? What pops my cork? What drives me to even think I am in the driver’s seat or even have to be? Maybe writing about Alfie is more important than whatever I am about to do when I turn this key. Maybe? Why not? Why not now? If not now, when? Now. Now, now. There, There. There will wait. I am here now. Hear, hear. Hear me roar. What’s it all about, Alfie? I don’t know. I am unknowing and that is what it is all about.
Back away from the key slowly. Keep your hands where I can see them. Place them on the keyboard nice and slow. That’s it. Now talk. Talk. Don’t make me shine the light in your face. That is so 40’s. So Avant guard. So, new wave. So, yesterday. Yesterday. Remember yesterday? Where were you between the time you first went to work and yesterday? Where were you? We have witnesses. Stand here and answer the following questions. We know who you are. We know what you did. What were you thinking?
What was I thinking? In the unknowing, I begin to understand what I did, what I was thinking, and what I am going to do about it. Right now, I am not going to do anything about it. I am just going to let it come. It will come when it is due. It will come when it is past due. Past due might be just right. Right on time. A stitch in time saves nine. A stitch ahead of time might be just the right thing. Just the right recipe. Just what the Doctor ordered. What’s up, Doc? Take two of your own pills and don’t call me in the morning. One pill makes you want them. Two pills make you dumb. The one that Alice gives you ain’t on the menu at all. So ask Alice if you wonder. Don’t ask me. I don’t know. This ain’t on schedule. It comes when it is time. It will be here when it is time. If I have to do time, I will do time. Time is on my side. Yes, it is. Time waits for no man. I wait for no man. I am on strike. Don’t wait for me. Don’t try to keep up. Don’t ask me. I don’t know. I just un-know right now and I un-know a lot more every day. That is the key to unknowing.
So I don’t turn that key, keep my finger off the button, and get ready to strike. To strike it rich because of my unknowing. Rich beyond anything that money can buy. Money can’t buy happiness. Want to know why? Cause happiness is free. Free as a bird. Naked and free and yours for the taking. Actually, it is yours for the having and for the giving. Money can’t buy happiness ‘cause happiness can’t be sold. So I ain’t buying that bullshit any more. I am on strike. That much I know.
~ “My darkness feasts. My light is much more patient.” ~
Marley Howls
Marley in chains. He came to me less than one circle of this shiny blue ball ago and is back. Fleshed a bit more. A lot more. When I held Marley to the mirror, he turned into me. Masked from myself as some stranger might be. Almost fooled myself in the process. The chain was the message last time. Over 9,000 links long. Daunting to be sure. The chain is longer now. In increased over fivefold….and I did my best not to make any new links in the last year. The links added were already made. In motion. Awhirl in a process turned machine that produces link after link better than we know and in ways that we feed.
It is the cash machine. We feed it and then it takes a little more than we have as we do. So we make a little more to feed it. Soon, we are making more to feed it than to feed us. Taxes are the enemy most define first. We don’t complain when we have it. We enjoy the benefits when we have it. Once we struggle a bit, we begin to wonder where those taxes go. Why this war? Why that project? Why does so and so get a share when they don’t give a share? We question taxes. We question others and who pays what and who gets what. We get mad. We protest. We are mad. Mad that we got into a game we are losing. Happy when we were winning. Even if we didn’t understand the rules. So we target taxes. Easy target. Common enemy.
Taxes get our interest. Interest gets our money. Look hard at the interest. The usury for spending what you don’t have before you have it. Vigorish. Interest. Points. Interest. The price of spending before you have. More spent there than on all taxes. We create a big monster with interest. An industry. That borrows on our borrowing. Making money on money that is not made yet. More is spend on interest than on taxes. More is spent on prescriptions and medical care than on taxes. Yet taxes get us mad.
Taxes take the money we don’t have left over after we pay interest so we want the taxes back. Taxes take the money we don’t have left over after we pay the medical bills and buy the prescriptions to cure our obesity, laziness, and ignorance so we want our taxes back.
My chain of taxes of 50,000 links and I am done building it. Will remove it link by link with a clear mind and even clearer heart. Resources are plenty. Obligations are honored. Freedom is on the other side of consumption, interest, and feeding a machine that is eating while dying.
~ “I’m impatient, selfish, demanding, fickle….and I’m all I got.” ~
Rose Colored Glasses
I need a new prescription for my rose colored glasses. Not going to get one though ‘cause I don’t plan to wear my rose colored glasses anymore. Liked them when they worked. Liked things being beautiful and magical and fairy tale like. Loved that feeling.
The feeling of Old Hollywood. That place that was like another planet. Where the stars fell from the heavens and showed us things beyond us. I was one of those lovely people out there in the dark. The lifestyles of the rich and famous. Those things beyond reach. Beyond imagination. My rose colored glasses kept them there and me here.
The feeling of Washington. Still remember the very feel of that power. The city pulsed with it. To even see the White House, did it. To actually tour it, enhanced it. It was special. The energy of responsibility. The feel of leaders that walked there. Lived on in the history books. The names and faces from newsreels and television special reports. My rose colored glasses helped me trust.
I was happy and traveled well with my rose colored glasses. My eyes changed. I changed. Seeing the world first hand surely affected it. Living in Turkey and hearing the call to prayer and walking from affluence to poverty everyday did it. The feel of Burning Man and true community shook my vision to be sure. So many things changed the way I see. It shouldn’t surprise me that my rose colored glasses don’t work anymore. What surprises me is that I keep trying to see through them.
Did it when I watched the Oscars. Tried to feel what I felt when Bogey, Wayne, Hayward, Gable, Leigh, Hope, Niven, Garland, Monroe, Holden, and so many more felt so far away and special. Tried to feel the elite-ness of it all. Felt instead a simpler connection. The feel of storytellers and artists sharing gifts. It was less special and more special at the same time. It was not another planet. It was just a nice night out for some folks that did their job well.
Tried my rose colored glasses on and looked at Washington. Thought of Stephen King’s book, “Needful Things”. In the book, one of the characters has a pair of Elvis’ glasses and wallows in a delusion while wearing them. I look at Washington now and feel much different. That is about me. About my changes. I see Washington struggling to solve itself. Wish them well.
My rose colored glasses don’t work. My vision works just fine though. I see how to share. I attrite away from accumulation. My path is simple and much clearer. Needed the rose colored glasses though because I would have walked into things that I was not ready to really see. I see beauty differently now. Magical is actually real now….and the smoke and mirrors can go in the closet with the rose colored glasses. As for fairy tales…..the grim ones suck wind……..the magical ones have wings. I believe in fairy tales and happy endings. For everyone.
~ “I lived my truth.” ~
In Or Out
“In or out? Make up your mind. We ain’t heating the streets.” Choices. Of old. Of new. In the closet? Out of the closet? Out is much better. In is likely safer. Some came out and ran right back in. Sad that in is safer. Out is…well, out there. It’s crazy out there. It’s cold and lonely out there. It’s hard out there.
I used to be in. Way in. In denial. Insane. In deep. Income generating, credit card yielding, IRA believing, can always make more money, get it now, pay for it later, man about town. Inside the system. Inside the beast. Inside where consumption is king. Inside where the Jones are so far behind they must live in a third world nation. In the groove. With the In crowd. Inside. Safe. Under the arches. Over the rainbow. In and out of In and Out Burger with a Double, Double, animal style. Instant breakfast. Instant coffee. Not! Into Starbucks for one of the chinos with an extra shot then into Eddie Bauer’s and out to see the latest release. In and then in deeper. Into debt. Out of any concept of consequences and responsibility. In love with spending what I did not have for what I wanted when I wanted it. Just in case. Just because. Just insane.
Chasing the dream. Living the dream. In hot pursuit. Button, button, who’s got the latest button? Button hooks. Button down. Button up. Batten down the hatches. It’s sales. Sell, sell, sell. Big sales. Everything must go. Selling. Buying. Selling. Sex sells. Get to the bottom line. It’s all about the bottom line. The haves versus the have not yets. The Hatfields and McCoys. The Real McCoys. The Real Deal. Top of the line. Top Hats and Tails. Tuxedo Junction. Tennessee Tuxedo. Odie Cologne. Ragland T Tiger and Crusader Rabbit. Draw your swords. May the best man win. Who’s the best man? Glengarry Glen Ross. Wall Street. Greed is good. Save for a rainy day? Not! You gotta spend money to make money. What have you done for me lately? No nibbling around the edges. Head right for the margins, target the yield, and sell short. Bonuses are earned. Pay to win. Play for keeps. Ride em, Cowboy. Stocks and bonds and bound for glory. Button, Button, Who’s got the button? Is it an inny or an outty? Inny versus Outty. Audi versus BMW. Seen the new Roadster? Gotta have one. What’s it gonna take to put you in this Roadster today?
Now I am out. Out of the insanity. Out of denial. In recovery. Out for Financial Freedom. I am a freedom fighter. Fighting the fallout of my own insanity for my truest and forever freedom. Free to be me. Free from the place where the only choice is more. Out of the beast I fed that now seems out for itself. Dealing with the external forces that call themselves Internal Revenue Service. Servants of the kingdom on my own making. Inside that machine. Inside those large buildings and mazes of codes where no one really knows what goes where, who does what, and who “they” really are. The place where “they” hide and decide what “they” must do to pay for what “they” already did and continue to do. They tax me. They drain me. They use to confuse and almost conquered me. Then I came out of the closet. Out of that fun house built on the river of denial and riddled by the cancer of consumption that fuels justification for actions that defy truth, justice, and the American way. Into the phone booth I go and out comes my cape that is really a towel. Here, I come to save the day! Mighty Mouth is on his way!
My pen is my sword. My wallet is closed. My back account is drained. I live my truth. It is not income tax. It is Outcome Tax. The Outcome of what I have done. What I fed, let happen, did, bought into…fill in your own blank. It will take months. More likely a few years. One for each decade of consumption and irresponsibility if my hunch is right and my hunches are right more and more. One year to pay for each decade is a small price to save my world. I shall pay that price. The Price Is Right. Time to deal with it. Time for me to do the right thing. Less is really more. A lot more. Less income, more outcome. Less spending, more responsibility. Less consumption, more sharing. Is you in or is you out? Make up your mind, Close the door. Get out of that closet. We’ll have a gay old time. We ain’t global warming the world anymore.
~ Tony Bennett describes himself as a patriot and a pacifist. Cool.” ~
Empire Of Dirt
I felt the earth move the other day. Actually, no. There was an earthquake in Utah the other day and everything in my home was devastated. Actually, no. Yet I walked through my house and felt those truths. Imagined the shaking and quaking. Saw the stuff in a pile of rubble. Was sad for a few moments. Only a few though. Was sad. Cause I like my stuff.
My Elvis stuff. Books. Pictures. Records. Trinkets and mementos. Gifts over the years. People know I love Elvis. His music comforts me. There is something about him that gets me at my core. He is as much a part of my life today as he was when I first heard him on “50,000,000 Elvis Fans Can’t Be Wrong”. Sure I was just a kid when my parents gave me that first record player and that album along with Elvis’ Christmas Album. (Still have both of those records….part of my stuff.) Yes, initially I liked Elvis because of my hero worship for my big brother. Same reason I liked the Yankees and joined the Air Force. Yes, it is true my Masters and Doctoral work were on topics related to the King of Rock N Roll. Along the way, Elvis became mine and Elvis stuff makes me feel good.
Other stuff too. Life stuff. Furniture. Pictures. Dishes. A clock that was my Father’s for twenty five years of blue collar hell. Hats. A lamp like the one from “A Christmas Story”. Yankee stuff. A monkey like the one that I had back before my first Elvis album. DVDs. CDs. Records. Vinyl ones and a stereo system with a turntable and everything. An autographed picture of Beaver. Another one of Roy Rogers. Even one of Vanna White cause I shot craps with her….twice. She is nice. Clothes. Lots of clothes. Not the Air Force Uniform. That was buried just yesterday on another guy for another reason. Suits though. From another lifetime and occasional times now. Shoes. One pair just slightly younger than that first Elvis album that still fit. Was married in those. Kinda like Beatle boots. More books. Televisions. All those wires and boxes and remotes so that I can watch stuff new and old and all points in between should I wish, when I wish, and all that stuff. Pots and pans and dishes. My favorite room in the whole world. Not the one with the pots and pans and stuff. Another room. Called a porch, kinda like a sun room, but more heaven on earth for me. That room and its table where I have coffee and the chair so good for naps and the windows that are like Wendy’s windows and are the best thing about the house and the house was cool even before that room and those windows brought a piece of outside inside. Even outside stuff. The Sanctuary and garden and shed with all those smells of garages and sheds.
I walked through and pictured it all gone. Rubble because of the earthquake. I was sad. For a few moments. Then life cheered me up. My own. That is the one I know best every day. Other lives too. Family. Of course. Friends. Strangers. Animals. Trees. Life. The stuff was rubble. Pangs came. Went too. Life matters. Stuff doesn’t. Didn’t think about insurance. Thought about less. Felt the power of that one line from that one song written by that one guy and sang by lots of others but sang best by Johnny Cash if you ask me. “You can have it all…..my Empire of dirt.” I like my stuff. Bottom line though…..it is an Empire of dirt. Not too big as empires go. Bigger than some, smaller than others. Valued by me……lots. Lots less lately. I like stuff. Just understand more and more that it doesn’t matter. Could be gone in a second, will be gone in a second even if it outlasts me since I will be gone in a second before it, after it, with it, or without it. So I like it. Enjoy it. Just don’t need it and will get a lot less of it as time goes on. Life is good. Life matters. Life is the true value of what we have right now and what matters. Life.
Didn’t really have an earthquake but sure was “All Shook Up”. I have life all around me. My stuff is cool stuff. I can just feel and see beyond it….way beyond it…..a bit more every day. You can have it all……my Empire of dirt. Will sell some of it since the IRS wants a bunch more cash than I have and plan to get. They are the Kings of the Hill when it comes to Empires of dirt. Me? I will listen to the King of Rock N Roll, piss on the Kings of the Hill, be the King of my own world, and have tons more cause I care about stuff tons less.
~ “Needs are revealed once wants are unmasked.” ~
Howling
My words were as dark as the storm today. So I will just howl with and at the wind. Howling above the pain. Howling above the self-pity. Howling above the shit storm that wages and rages and stages and cages. Howling right in its face…and right through the mirror…and down the rabbit hole to be the Madhatter as wild as the March hare that fucks the Queen of Hearts hard and long.
There are lessons in scarcity. Lessons I learn and live and fight as I learn and live more. Howling sometimes feels like resistance. Today it feels like deeper surrender and acceptance to blindness and trust. So I howl…louder than the storm for it shall not drown me nor drown me out. It is, after all, nature’s whirlwind. Just like me.
~ “Silent in emotion, wiser over emotion.” ~
Muddled
My thoughts were clearly muddled as March kissed me good bye with snow. More rested on less sleep, the morning walk was when dark and light parted ways until their next reunion. No rush. What goes around comes around.
At times I ran. From nothing. To nothing. Without reason. Without race or time clock. No finish line. Unfinished lines. Pregnant with words. Carrying many books. Some mere seeds. Others moving to birth at their pace. Other may remain in me. Stillborn. Still to be born. More imagined than conceived. Yet other nuggets drop from me like nuts from a big nut job. Perhaps they will root. Hip Hip Hooray. They might inspire. A word heard. A well penned lick that sparks another’s fuse. Pen, prose, poem….uttered, sputtered, without shutter or stutter. Spoken clearly even if muddled before being showered with love, shaved with sassy, and spit shined by truth.
Words from the darkness that light the way. I do my best work in my darkness. Work in others’ darkness too. Holding their face to their own fires of bullshit and denial for I have been branded in that way. There are many here in the dark. Showing themselves and sharing themselves to any that ask for a taste of their how and ways and means. Tasty morsels served up in the marinade they made along the way when blinded by the light. In the darkest rooms are the sweetest developments. The belittlers be little here. Demonize. Demon eyes. We are what we seek. We seek truth and light and balance and sharing. We are kind, have kindred, share kindling, and warm our cold and sorry asses around a circle of fire. Bon voyage. Bonnie lads and lasses dance in kilts, kill no more, take no shit, and understand the difference between pacifist and pass a fist.
I don’t have your answers. You can have mine if they work for you. My thoughts are clearly muddled on April Fools Eve. I ain’t kidding. No kidding. No kidding around. You can’t kid me. I am of the Feminine and I birth words injected into me in ways you can’t even imagine. Maybe you can. Bend over and let me bend your ear a bit and then you can bend my ear. Let’s jam. Can you hear the Circus Music? They are playing our song. Let’s dance with the devil with the blue dress on. Ensure your seams are straight. Seems straight to me. But then again, straight has a whole new definition when your thoughts are clearly muddled.
Let me be straight about this. I feel the negative. See it. Taste it. Know it. Positively, absolutely, know the negative. Gotta know your enemy. Cause. Clauswitz knew that. Sun Tzu, too. Pogo knew better. Met the enemy and he is us. Me is us. I am you and you are he and we are he and we are all together. Coochie, Coochie, and a big Kook Kook Ka Choo. God Bless you, each and every one. Saw a man and he danced with his wife. Read another and he envied someone else’s pride in who and where they were. I was torn…to laugh or to cry at how sad and ironic that was. Laughing was too heartless. Crying would be wasteful. So I wrote about it and now you read about it. Maybe that is the right thing. I am not sure it matters what I feel. Maybe it is just enough to feel. Does not make me proud to feel. It could be worse though. It could be unclear and muddled. Am I making myself clear? Maybe I am muddled. Clearly so. So what?
~ “Truth pushes through the bullshit and heals.” ~
More or less, Moral less.
I need to do less. A lot less. Less will help me a lot more. Less fretting about the rock river and when it will be finished and more enjoying each rock I bring back from the field on my morning walks. More savoring each color and nuance as the river moves to life one day at a time. It reveals its path with each stone I turn over. Less about the finishing. More about the doing.
Less time shopping and more time seeing what I already have. Paid the price of stuff and have to pay a bit more before I really understand how much more less is. I need to go into the closet more and ensure less stuff is hidden there and forgotten. Found a whole stack of kid’s books the other day and they will head to my Daughter’s house and be in use rather than in that place where we stuff that stuff that is not quite our stuff anymore but we want to keep it some more anyway. There is a lot more stuff in that closet that helps me see how much less stuff I need to keep from myself and others.
Less time with the news. It gets old. That ain’t news. I knew it before. Stopped watching it a while back. That and a lot less TV. Eased back into it and now I wonder why. Really don’t care about the either/or political parties that promise more of the same with less credibility. Wonder if the bad guys that are playing to the audience will really miss me in that crowd. Less time with the news and more time with the old. The old ways of taking care of what is mine. Less time hurrying. More time noticing the worms that came out this morning after the first really hard spring rain. Lots of worms out there. Some were not turning. Some were not even moving. Some were wiggle worms doing what wiggle worms do. There were long ones, short ones, fat ones, and round ones. The worms looked a lot more like Oscar Mayer Bologna now that I eat less meat. Good to see that actually. The world can do with a lot less bologna. No bullshit. Haven’t seen the worms for months. Quite the news today once I went for my first hand report on the walk of the day. Saw worms, brought back a few cool rocks, and stressed less. Felt less taxed on this April morning. May have to have a special edition walk later for more updates and bulletins as whatever happens, happens.
Less time pretending the new waves of green and spiritual businesses are any purer than sweat shops or company stores. The Tithe’ al wave of buying opportunities to save ourselves and the planet is more of the same sold as less bad than what bankrupted us in the first place. Spending to save the planet and your soul is fucking for virginity. It might feel good while you do it but you still get screwed in the end.
Less time worrying about taxes. More time realizing how little I need. Less time feeding the wolf that attacks my life and future. More time sharing and more time caring. Less time pretending the machine will change without a whole lot more people doing a whole lot less with it. Less time watching it crumble and more time making sure my garden produces lots of wonderful and healthy food. The IRS ain’t gonna drop off a basket of stuff to hold me over while I wonder what’s for dinner.
I need to keep a lot less to myself. People need to know other folks are afraid and that more of us are less inclined to hide or deny our truth. People need to know less people are exclusive and more people know we all have to get along. People deserve to know that more Americans are doing less things that take food out of other nations’ mouths. People deserve to know less of us are hocking their tomorrow to pay for our today.
Less cars. Less stores. Less homes empty. Less houses built. Less driving to the gym. Less watching. Less sitting. Less complaining. Less trash. Less trips to the book store and more trips to the Library. Less pretending we don’t have a lot of work to do and more time doing the work. I need a lot less than I ever did before and need to need even less. Less is the key to more. So no more kidding myself. I ain’t Moral Less. Not anymore.
~ “Abundance is better understood within scarcity.” ~
Trapped
I went into the trap willingly. Followed my own greed. Paraded in with new cars and spending sprees and pride of accomplishment. Accepted that what I earned was enough to tolerate taxes that were spent in ways I did not bother to understand. Accepted that the tax codes were complicated and required paid experts to handle. I walked in with the check book and credit card out and paid a CPA to file honestly and accurately. There was plenty to go around. Save a little to reduce taxes. Spend a lot. Change a lot. The ride was all up. Up and Up and away. Work hard. Play hard. Spend as needed for whatever I wanted. I was living the American Dream.
Now the trap bleeds me. Bleeds me to stay in debt. Bleeds me to feed the money machine that was much easier to feed when I made more money each year. Every year. More is right. More is needed. MORE is good! The trap lives as I did….must spend to do what is right….it will all work out. Someday. Have to spend ourselves to safety. The trap is alive and living the American dream that is now my living nightmare.
The savings eroded and I watched. What was balanced became less balanced and then even less balanced. I waited. Hoped. Then I acted. Liquidated. A bold step. Paid debts to the best of my ability. Ensured employees were paid. Ensured creditors were paid. Ensured tax obligations were paid. Paid taxes on the money I saved for retirement since I drew all the funds out before retirement. Then paid an additional penalty for pulling the funds out early because I agreed to those rules. Was advised to leave that money alone. Was counseled to get unemployment rather than touch retirement savings. File Bankruptcy and things could be salvaged. Instead, I paid all I could with all I had and continue to pay what is left. After all, I agreed to those obligations.
Then the trap really sprang tight around me. IRS said the forms were wrong. Here is your bill. CPA danced and dodged and denied. Utah state tax said the forms were wrong. Here is your bill. Honda says, “too bad you had to turn the leased car in early, continue to pay. Here is your bill.” I appealed. They denied. I paid. Reduced all spending. Walked. Clipped my own wings to weather the penance for playing a game that I ignored because I was on Easy Street.
I was inside of and fed the insanity. Now it feeds on me. Inside the trap is like that. It will take me years to break the chains I forged with my own greed and ignorance. Still, I inch away to financial freedom and global awareness. Days turned to weeks and weeks to months and I accepted that this was learning and I was better. More balanced in the world and my impact on the world.
Yesterday, the trap rose again and drove another nail in the coffin. 4,236 nails actually. Nails I think were already jammed and paid but I must rise and prove that for I am willing victim to the very system I fed and celebrated and now see in its truth. It is easy to blame the system…almost as easy as it is to feed the system. I was the system. I fed the system. I learn and grow and see, with disgust, what I let happen.
I am still in the trap. I shall free myself and do my very best to help others see the insanity of consumption, greed, and wants dressed up as needs in Barbie and Ken’s American Experience. How was your day?
~ “My reality check bounced.” ~
The Wall
The wall is real. It is 10,000 bricks high and thick. The closer I get to it, the more it effectively blocks out the light. There are more bricks. Waiting. Looming. Concrete reminders forged over the years at my own hand. My own choices. My own life. The wall is very real.
I knew it was there….somewhere just ahead on my path….before I ever saw it. It came into full view just the other day. It seemed too large to be real. Too big to be possible. It seemed unfair and out of place and fake. It just couldn’t be. So I went to it and touched it. Tested. Confirmed. It was indeed real and very much there. Right there….straight and narrow across my path of righteousness. Right there…between me and where I was headed.
I pounded it a bit. Tried to scale it. Walked it to look for any openings. I denied the very futility of that effort as I did it but I did it anyway. Then I stepped back. Way back. To see the wall and understand the why, who, when and more. What I saw very clearly was the how. The why is useless, the who is nobody, and the when was and is and will be. The how was the answer that helped me. The how was the key. I lived the how.
This wall was a lifetime and more in the making. My lifetime and many others. This wall was my own wall. A wall of choices with good intent but less than informed decisions. A wall of actions with purity of heart and naivety of spirit. A wall built with the help of my own hands before I reached this part of my journey. Brick by brick, I helped block the way to my own joy.
The wall is behind me now. It looks different from the other side. It is just as real but it faces the old way. It is cold and empty and relatively defenseless from this side of the path. I could just move on and let it slowly erode. Instead, I am going to piss on it. Just because it is there. Piss on it and watch it fizzle away so that others will see the smoldering embers of the once tall and mighty wall that blocked the path to doing right. The wall needs to be seen and remembered…even when I pissed it into nothingness.
Pissing on it until the path is clear for others will indeed take me a while. I could just move on down the road. That would be easier and likely more fun. That would also leave the wall in place…blocking the view and being much more than it really is. Piss on that.
~ “Washington---Deja Fools.” ~
Theme Song
I have a new theme song. It bubbles just out of reach. Elvis and Marvin Gaye dance around it and help me feel it. It is from the 60s, perhaps the early 70s, and it was known yet not quite renowned. It will come to me in fullness later this week…perhaps even sooner.
My reality is like that. Fuzzy without annoyance. I felt it last week in Las Vegas. Vegas touches me on many levels. I have loved it there and hated it there. It is an alternate reality that fills each space with noise and rushes to push light into any hint of darkness. It is an alternate reality.
Over the years, Vegas helped me know my weaknesses and almost lose to them. This trip was different. I saw the beautiful people there. At the Wynn, it was like being on the set of 90210 or Baywatch. I was there yet not there. The people were far removed from most of the world yet happy in their way. I liked them and enjoyed their beauty and flair for joy as they knew it. Those moments carried forth to me for I knew their reality was their reality and it was as removed from mine as mine is from many others.
My reality has changed dramatically. I am what I am wherever I am. Yet my writer was quiet and other aspects of my being just watched as Vegas flowed all around me. In it while not in it. It was time to enjoy and learn and absorb so I did.
Now a theme song hums hints of itself to me. In that song will be part of the lesson. It is one of the cards I have chosen and now I open to understand it. My reality is new. It is different for me and different for those around me. Marvin asks his mother why children are dying and Elvis puts his soul into a song about dreams coming true…and I know their questions are answers. I have very few questions and fewer and fewer judgments. The answers come at a pace I can handle. That’s a nice reality. Gives me something to sing about…once I remember the words I already know.
~ “I trust more than I know.” ~
Solitary Man
I ain’t a joiner. Just the way it is. Have been a part of some mighty big groups over the years on the path from back there to up ahead. Yes, indeed. Some mighty big groups. US Military. That kinda big. As groups go, that is a mighty big group. Use to be in that group and a few others as well. Guess I still am in a way. Just ain’t a joiner. At least not any more. At least a whole lot less than I ever was if I ever really was. Like anything though, that is about me. It ain’t about the groups.
Groups are good things. Many can do more than one. Just a fact. It is a reality we live with every day. Test it for yourself. Try to move that pile of dirt or bricks from one place to another place and see how long it takes you. Then get a few friends. Maybe even a few more. Have them pitch in moving the pile. That pile becomes the pile that was and the new pile becomes the pile that is a heck of a lot quicker with more hands moving stuff from point A to point B and maybe even a few other points along the way.
Each one of us has energy. It takes more than one of us to have Synergy. That happens when you add one person’s energy with another person’s energy and get the energy of three. Add more and the energy can increase exponentially. That’s a lot. Synergy is really good energy. When Synergy kicks in, whoa, baby, watch out. The collective becomes that hive of bees and does some mighty sweet things. When that happens, it is awesome to be part of the group. That is when groups rock. A whole bunch of pedals to the same medal forges hot, baby. Yes sir-re-di.
As for me, I kinda cooled when it comes to groups. Just not a joiner anymore. The not being a joiner thing is about me. I change a lot. Evolve. My evolutions feels like revolutions at times. I go so fast at times I have to stop and ask myself for directions. That attracts some and repulses others. Used to worry about that. A lot. Worried a lot about what others thought of me and if they would let me fit in. Don’t worry about that much anymore. In fact, fitting in kinda scares me nowadays. Groups are too slow for me now. Too slow for change. Groups are like ships and ships don’t turn worth a damn. They get moving and then just keep moving in that direction cause it is just easier to keep going where they said they needed to go. Ships are slow to get moving in the first place and then hard to change once they get into motion. Changing directions just is not something they do well. Turning them babies around is not for the nimble and swift. Turning them babies around takes patience and a lot of room before the crash. Groups are like ships. A lot like them when you think about it. Even more like them when you don’t.
I guess I was in the groups while they were headed in the same direction I was. Kinda. At least close enough that I didn’t wonder what the fuck as they headed for the rocks with their heads up their ass. Groups lose their way quicker than people do and then take longer to even accept the possibility they are lost. I got lost from them before I continued to get lost with them. Now, they can just get lost. Me? I am busy finding my way.
Some folks are still with me. I don’t think of them as a group though. Just the folks that are with me. Just the folks I am with. Sometimes we have differences of opinions. Not on the big things though. Like being inclusive and positive and sharing and making the right choices more and more. There are more and more people like that. A group of folks just like me. Not a group though. More like little ships that pass in the night, blow the whistle, and then travel together for a while. A whole bunch of little ships that can. Most even do. Nice to know there are other ships out here on these uncharted waters. Ships that let me be me as I let them be them. Good ships. Ships that are not suckers anymore for groupthink.
I don’t try to change them and they don’t try to change me. We work on ourselves, compare notes, keep the good stuff, and ignore the rest. Sometimes they are out in left field on some stuff. Heck, sometimes they have their head so far up their ass I wonder what ever linked us in the first place. Then I remember that time when I had my head up my own ass. It was only once. I think it lasted a lot longer than I admit and made me pretty shitty even though I pretended to be alright. Remembering that helps me remember they will get their heads out of their asses sooner or later. If not, that is about them. If they keep their head up their ass too long, they will just go join some group where everyone has their head up their ass so each one of them sees the same thing. Sounds kinda shitty to me. Hope it works out for them. Meanwhile, I am busy running my own ship.
Running my own ship keeps me busy. Really, really busy. It takes everything I have and everything I am just to keep my head out of my ass on a daily basis. Feels good to breathe in the clean air though and share some of the fresh air from where my ship is. Hope you like it. If you do, that is about you. If you don’t, you probably have your head up your ass and that is alright, too. Some mighty fine folks did some of their very best work right after they pulled their head out of their ass.
~ “I left a group and they didn’t miss me. Guess I ain’t going back. Was I ever really there? ~
Simple Fi
I started a club a while ago. You can be in it if you want. Anyone can. That’s just the way I do things. Inclusive. A nice word. Inclusive. If I eliminated people from my club…well, that would be bad and short sighted and just the opposite of what is right. People do belong. We are all in the same club. The “I have been born, I am going to die, and I am doing my best in between to make sense of what the heck I am doing here” club.
That ain’t the name of my club. If that was the name of my club, t-shirts would be out of the question. My club is “Simple Fi”
Kinda sounds like one of those things some people do at colleges and such. For some, those kinda clubs were the best part of their college experience. For me, those things were not any part of my college experience. Just because my college experience was a tad bit different than most.
I took classes at twenty-seven different colleges/universities, graduated from four, and, until a road trip a year ago when I went out of my way to drive onto the campus of University of Nebraska at Omaha, never stepped foot on the four I graduated from. It’s the facts, Jack. I was a migrant worker (twenty-eight years in the US Military) and took classes wherever I could and whenever I could. Even took some night classes at an All Girls Catholic College in Nashua New Hampshire. Turned out it was the very first time they opened their night classes to co-ed…myself and one other guy were the only two males that attended that first quarter. Just me and him and all women. Dang the luck! Had a nun, a room full of women, and a demanding class. Still shows up in my dreams. Only on good nights though. Learning can be such a dream come true.
Along the way, I amassed a few degrees. BA. MBA. PhD. That impresses some folks. Letters after a name are very important to some. I was one of those for quite a while. Maybe the letters after my name should have been BOZO (In training). Well, I achieved the highest level of learning there. I am Bozo Emeritus. Screw that shit. Take the letters after my name, stamp them, and send them to the dead letter office. If you need letters after my name to care about what I say, you most likely would not believe what I say anyway.
With the slightly different path my college education took, the opportunity of Sororities and Fraternities just did not surface. Just as well really. The only time I attended anything close to a full time college experience was just recently when attending Utah College of Massage Therapy. The Principle called me to her office one day, and it had been over forty years since I was called to the Principal’s office, said a student had filed a complaint against me, and kicked me out. Just like that. No questions. No explanations. Fifty-six years old and I was kicked out of college. Wow.
What the heck would have happened if I had attended college back in the 70s? Holy Moly…..I can only imagine. Timothy Leary…eat your heart out. It is easy to be radical when you’re in your 20s. Being radical when you are 56 is…..well, radical. Helps me understand why I am not a joiner. Like Groucho said, “I refuse to belong to any club that would have me for a member.” Until today, that is. I like being in Simple Fi.
Simple Fi is different than Fraternities and Sororities. Although my path did not include time in clubs with Greek Letters for names, hazing ceremonies, and the opportunity to be three sheets to the wind while wrapped in a sheet, I understood the basic math. Fraternities + Sororities = Paternity.
My club is an Eternity Club. Your eternity is welcomed. My eternity is welcome. Here an eternity. There an eternity. Everywhere an eternity. Maybe that could be our theme song. Sung to the tune of Old MacDonald had a Farm of course. Our mascot could be a Ewe. My you. Your you. Everywhere a you-you. Not a yo-yo. If you are a yo-yo, you are still welcome but you are probably busy amassing letters after your name.
In Simple Fi, you play. Everyone plays. Unless, of course, if someone is sad. Then we all cheer them up and then we all play. Kinda hard to play when someone else can’t. So we play. Alone. Together. Whatever works.
Today I played on the ice. Wasn’t much ice today. Spring is the air. Still there was some ice. For me, the best kind. The ice over puddles. I love cracking it and seeing the water kiss the open air. Maybe it is the open air that kisses the water. Whatever. A kiss is a still a kiss. Sometimes the air kisses the water, sometime the water kisses the air. You put the lime in the coconut, You drink them both up. I don’t play that game. Playing on the ice is enough for me. Life on the rocks is, well, life on the rocks. I let air kiss water and water kiss air and the Doctor can heal someone else’s belly ache. My belly is fine and full and not even hung over my belt.
So I walked. One foot on the street. One foot cracking the ice. Foot. Crack. Foot. Crack. Foot. Crack. Did it safely, too. Foot. Crack. Never fell on my butt crack. Not today at least. Today I played. Today I started a club. Simple Fi.
Simple Fi. I think I will. I am a simple kinda guy. Don’t let the letters after my name fool you. I am smarter than they might make you think. Simple Fi. Lessons in life trump college every time. The colleges you attended, didn’t attend, wanted to attend, and even got kicked out of….lessons in life trump them all. I got a lot to learn.
Join the club. You already paid your dues. You were born. Now you can Simple Fi for life.
~ “Gratitude Rocks.” ~
Temptation
It came again today. In the form of Blogging. Blogging for money. I watched and learned about how sharing and touching can be turned into a business. Blog sites that help folks turn their creative gifts into a living.
I saw the beauty of it. A way to balance time at home with cash flow. An opportunity to do what you love and be paid for it. Win-Win.
Then I realized I must blog more. More things about me written and shared to anyone that cares. Maybe even to a few who don’t. Not that they would read much of it anyway. Just me being me for anyone to see.
That is what I do in the poems. The stories. The books. It is me being me. Sharing what is important for me to share. Living my passion. Passion. Truth. Real. Me being me.
That’s what I do with massage and energy work. Give it away. To those that need it. Teach those that wish to give it away, too. Help them on a path of sharing their healing gifts with friends and family. Give it away.
So I will blog. I will also do it for free. That is one of my passions. Giving things away. Breaking my previous cycle of focusing on making money. Breaking the insanity of spending money to make money and making money to spend money. Resources will flow. I trust that.
Yet I am human. For a moment, I was right there. In that Temptation. Wow! I can blog and write and make money on it. Wow! The perfect match. Wonder how I get started? Are there websites? How long does it take to develop a following? How much can I make? Will it be enough to pay the IRS and Utah the tax bills they say I owe? Wouldn’t that be cool? I could blog and write and pay them and all would be right with the world. Blah…blah….blah. I was right back there for a moment. That place where I price my gifts and use them in the way that best influences the bottom line.
Stop the horses, Buckaroo. Give things away. Give. Share your gifts. You have enough. You have enough. That is my reality. I have enough. Others need what I have to share. Share. Resources follow. Resources follow. That is my path. That is my choice. That is my way. That is my freedom.
Temptation abounds. Whew. Glad it showed up to help me blog and give something else away.
~ “Peek through the windows of my soul….my life is a glass house.” ~
Quote-Able
“Unpaid bills, a stone with my name chiseled in it along with the from and the to, some overdue library books, and stuff picked so clean for so long everybody thinks it was somebody else’s before it got to be theirs? Is that what comes of all of this except for the darkest villains and the loudest saints? Not in this heart. This heart is alive. Hearts that think they died on arrival and don’t have the good sense to stop beating…they might as well just sleep in.” ~ Me….another 3 o’clock in the morning talking to make myself think moments.
~ “Welcome to my snow globe. What’s shaking?” ~
Stormy Whether
The options are many. They are limited only by me. Limited by if I read the signs or read them and decide I know what to do. Limited by if I act on things rather than accept the chain of events and learn where it leads. Limited by my thoughts, feelings, emotions, reactions, decisions, and more.
The options are many. They are all mine. I opt to trust and own everything about the signs. How they feel to me is mine to own. How they make me feel about possibilities is about me. How they affect me and my moods is mine to own.
The easy ways are the easier ways. They do not work for me anymore. When I feel self-pity, I keep it and peel it apart. When I wish to blame, I own that indicator as things within myself that try to hide while I point my finger at others. When I long to act, I realize my actions may be actually reactions rather than true actions. The easy ways are easier. I shall feel the signs, own what I feel about them, and ride the flow of where things take me.
There is something about me that is deeply emotional right now. A whirlwind of emotion that is all mine, all about me, and all around me. I am in the eye of my own storm.
~ “The weather’s toasty and the traffic’s jammed. Take the alternate route and enjoy the scenery.” ~
Tired
Some days, I get tired. Just leave me alone, don’t you dare leave me alone tired. Don’t like that place but sure do know it. It is a selfish, self-pitying place. I feel everyone else and tire of it. Just want to be while already knowing that just being merely feeds it. Want to sleep but that is hiding from it. That is being in it and letting it wash over me in the unrest of not feeling. Life is about feeling. Even when it makes you tired. Especially when it makes you tired. To feel is to live and we get tired of living sometimes. We get tired of how hard it is. We want things to settle down. We want them to ease up. We want to scream “Take a damn break”, “Shut the fuck up”, and “Leave me alone” at the top of our lungs to anyone’s face. Sometimes we do. At our weakest, we scream it at others. At our strongest, we scream it at ourselves. Real loud. Real long. Real clear.
Some days, I get tired. Days like today. That is when life really gets interesting. That is the birthplace of change and proof that we are pregnant with life. Life is inside of me and it is kicking up a storm. Have to smile because punching myself in the stomach is just plain stupid. I might be tired. I ain’t stupid. I also ain’t weak…..or else I would be much more tired.
~ “If I did complain, today would be the day for it. Wait a minute, did I just complain?” ~
Liar!
I was called a liar a while back. The person said I lied, said a lot of other things, and let me have it. After all, lying is lying. There are big lies that some people live every single day. Lying so much the lie seems more like the truth that the truth does. Those are easy to know as lies. It gets almost easier to lie about them than to speak the truth. Then there are some little lies. Things we say because the truth is a bit harsh or nasty. Those are easier to rationalize than the big lies but they are still lies. Lies are lies no matter how we slice it and that is the truth.
Truth is, if I did lie that time, I do not remember it. Yes, I lied a lot a life. Lied to myself, lied to others, lied in what was said, and what was not said. Have worked on that and am doing a lot better. It began by telling myself the truth. That is where the lies unravel first. It then spreads. When we stop lying to ourselves, we are very likely to stop lying to others. The lying to others begins with our own skewing of our truths.
Still, I might have lied that time and there is not any excuse for that. If I did, I really do not remember it and don’t care to see if I had some “reason”, “excuse”, or “rationalization” for what was taken as a lie. Bullshiting yourself does not change a lie. A lie is a lie. That is my truth so if I lied I fell short of my own standard and must do better. So I learn. I shall apologize even if someone thinks I lied for that is their truth about me. If they forgive me, cool. If they do not, that is alright too, because that is their choice.
Lying is our choice. Forgiving liars is our choice. Living our truth is our choice. The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth…and I am not lying.
~ “When friendship becomes friendshit, jump ship.” ~
Daring Heroes
“Hey!! YOU…you up there on the pedestal! HOW DARE you screw up!”
“I put you up there and look to you as example. I want to be like you. I like what you do. I like what you say. I like what you are. I like everything about you. You are my hero. That is why you are on that pedestal. I put you there. You might want to be there. You might have planned to be there. You might have even worked to be there. You probably even worked to stay there. I put you there! HOW DARE you screw up.”
“You say something is right and I believe it. You say something should be done and I do it. You do something and I do it too. HOW DARE you show me the wrong stuff! HOW DARE you take your role as my hero lightly! HOW DARE you! HOW DARE you!”
“You are a damn hero. Live like one. Be right and true and strong and brave and all the things heroes are supposed to be. Be a hero all the time because you are my hero all the time. HOW DARE you be human and screw up sometimes! HOW DARE you!”
“Shit. You are my hero and I expected more of you. You screwed up, hero. You made a mistake, hero. Some hero you are, you phony son-of-a-bitch!! HOW DARE you be less than perfect!”
I guess we can be pretty hard on our heroes when they screw up.
Ever wonder who thinks you are a hero? I do.
~ “My hero was human. I was just too blind to see.” ~
Question
To question or not to question, that is the question. No question about it. I question everything. I am a Questioner. Question to learn. Question to ensure I actually understood what I learned. Question how to share it, how to give it away, and how to keep giving it away. Question all the time and then question why I question all the time. It happens all day, every day. I wake up with a question of what the day holds and then go to sleep with a question if I did my best. My dreams walk right into my questions. Questions about the light. Questions about the dark. Questions to learn.
Questions are joyous. Each question is the Divine Child opening to be fed. Maybe my mouth should be a question mark. Maybe my Divine Child has a question mark rather than a halo. My Divine Child questions all the time. I even question the Divine. How dare I? How could I? How could I not? I question to learn and then to share and then if I shared enough and if it was what others needed and if it will really matter. If it does, cool. If it does not, so what? Tomorrow is an unknown. I do not question that. I do my questioning in the moment.
Some questions are to attack. When asked them, I realize they are not truly questions at all. Yet when I feel myself asking those type of questions, I honor them. I choke them back and ask myself why the hell I would do that? Why would I question my joy or my choices or ever dare to question others’ joy or their choices. All of those questions are actually all about me anyway so I choke them back and must become a Master Questioner.
Why do I question? What drives this question? I own the questions and question right through the questions to find the fear that drives them. To find what I need to feel to understand why the heck I would question my very joy. To understand the weakness that is mine that would have me question others rather than ask why I question them rather than face the question of self I avoid by questioning them. Those are the questions of deeper learning. I go deep into them because there is sweetness in deep learning.
I question to learn. No question about it. I question to grow and shine and share and live and die and love and love even more and then even more than that. I question because I am human and we are here to learn and questions are all about learning. Learning about me so that I can be the best me and then a better me and then even a better me. Learning about me so I can be a We, and We We We… all the way home. Right back to where I came from. Wherever that was. Any questions?
~ “My X-ray specs see through the bullshit and that is not something the Bazooka folks offered on any comic at any time. It’s kinda cool when it comes right down to it. Hope you enjoy the ride.” ~
Heroes
My heroes are all hokey. They believe in right and wrong. They uphold the law right up until the law is wrong and they know it. They know the truest magic. They strive to do their best and know when they miss the mark. They think like little children and believe the bad guys lose in the long run. Something in them is childlike. Almost naïve. Yet they hold it in their hearts even when storms clouds gather and the darkest forces push them to their doom. Sometimes they are stubborn. Perhaps even stupid in what they do. Yet they are true to what they thought was right and then rise from the ashes of their own implosion and walk into the fray once more. They are harder on themselves than they are to anyone else.
My heroes come from another time. A time before imbalance. A time when everyone understood that if one person anywhere is hungry, we all are. A time when one person’s beliefs were theirs and yours were yours and that was alright. A time when we picked the right fights for the right reasons and only fought until the fight was over. A time when darkness came and tested and went away beaten by a whole bunch of people that went back to doing what they were doing before all the crap started.
I felt my heroes this morning. Flashes of one and then another and then another. My friend’s father came back from the grave and put me to work. He was a curmudgeon. He worked to show how tough he was all the time. As if tenderness was weakness. Yet I saw him kiss his grown son when he thought no one else would see. I saw him sneak in the back of the church just in time for communion, knowing Jesus knew he would come. I saw him cry when people he loved hurt and do his best to hide his own tears when he did. He had too many flaws to list and too much strength to make them of any importance. I saw him help the friend of a friend the best he could. No questions asked. Lots of my heroes came to visit me this morning. Heroes are like that.
~ “They only made one mistake. They thought I would go away. Me and everyone like me.
They did all they could to suppress, ignore, blame, chastise, isolate, crush, separate, buy, break, and even kill us.
They failed. Yes, it took years and involved an entire world.
They only made that one mistake. It was their undoing.
We will not go away.” ~
Life Trifecta
Yesterday a birthday, tomorrow a Wedding, and today a reunion. My oldest Daughter celebrated her birthday yesterday and I was here for her. Seems life plans and choices have kept me away on more of her birthdays than not over the years. This year has me here. Last night had me at her house with the present of a chocolate shake. Just a small gift of indulgence…as much for me as for her.
Today has a reunion with my brother and his wife. I am sure there are other brothers who are as different as he and me…however, it feels we are cut from different cloth. Even more so as my path diverges further from his as time moves to where it moves. Yet, the reunion shall be wonderful. I am me and he is he and still we are somehow we. We will talk the things that link us…..Elvis, the Yankees, the USAF, and Jersey. We will talk the things that make us each what we are as well. In that discussion shall be the deeper bonding. I welcome him to see me as I am while I will know and accept him as he is.
Tomorrow is a Wedding. The first second for my kids. The first one for us that has two children already part of the coupling. There will be dancing and joy and I shall partake.
The energy of the week has been one of Gathering. It touches each here as sure as each here touch it. Time for me to give and to receive even more in the giving. Blessed Be. Harm None. Be here. Mazel tov.
~ “The truth is what we live and share as we live and learn.” ~
Tender
She needed touch. It was that simple. Just to be touched and comforted. I needed to be there and use Reiki, Munay-Ki, insights, and more for her. The session started late…but was right on time. Exactly when she needed it and just as she processed the highs and lows that had her so off-balance. So, I touched and she quieted. She softened. She sighed silently and just was.
Prior to the session, I opened Sacred Space and reached to the SOURCE. Reached to know what type of session it would be and how to be ready for what came. The answer was not clear. The scheduled time for the session arrived and she did not. I grew impatient, angry…focused on self…human. Then she arrived and we talked. She shared. I listened. Then I explained we did not have enough time for an energy session and suggested she just needed to be touched. She smiled and said that would be nice. A different CD for a different session and it all worked out.
It was sweet and pure and real. It was right. This is how things work when we get off our schedules, over our agendas, and just let things be. I was ready for what came…but only understood that after it arrived…right on time.
~ “I feel so intensely and care so deeply that it often takes my breath away.” ~
Calm Sees
The quiet calms me at times. Drinking in everything. The gagged torrent of self. The quelled rage of the world. The flood oozes and serpents through cellular nooks and crannies to my soul.
For a bit, it felt like understanding went away. Mistaken choices? Is where I am the dream and where I was the reality? Held that place for a while. Questions built of bricks, of self-doubt. Holy Shit Houses mazed alone. So very quiet. Screams held deep inside because….well, because this place is beyond screams. The point of no return passed long ago and honored as such.
Then the dreams came. As peaceful as they were bizarre. Specifically unbelievable and exactly right. Each tentacle traceable to its Dead End joke root as the Muses slight of handle Their toy. Nights of them leave me dazed and less confused.
The understanding is real. The choices were right, albeit overdue. Lessening prepares for the more. My load is lighter for reasons that whisper on the get a clue whirlwind that sweeps the land.
Invisible. Exposed. Virgin displayed prior to ceremony. Breathing anew in waters of metamorphosis. The words are all around me. Soon I shall be them and they shall be yours. Soon they will go all the places needed and feed the hungry. The brewing matches the building and the feast shall be ravenous. Truth is my hunger and I nurse to a life that honors all life.
Extra. Extra. Read all about it.
Man becomes Word.
Word becomes Truth.
Truth becomes Life.
~ “I have to get out of my own way at times.” ~
Bananas
I just had a banana. One day past primo banana day, it was joyous. All by itself. Raw and pure. It stood alone. I felt it first because of what I did not do with it. I did not just eat while doing anything else. Did not slice ii and put it in a bowl to be part of a wonderful Ice Cream Sundae. A banana split and celebrated along with the mother’s milk of Ice Cream, chocolate syrup, whipped cream, and more than one cherry on top. I let it touch me as sure as Ice Cream decadence does…all by itself.
It came from Ecuador. Wow. Way down there and now way up here. Someone picked it. He, I suspect it was a he, probably didn’t notice. It was just one piece of fruit on a stalk of many other pieces of fruit and just another stalk of many other stalks of fruit picked that day and then the next. Rushed to time everything right to go from almost ready to the store shelf somewhere far away so someone could have a banana when they wanted one. He didn’t know that someone. He didn’t know that somewhere. He didn’t notice that banana. Just another day. Just another job. Just another labor. He had to work fast. The work was now and would last but a few weeks. His son needed his example, his daughter needed shoes, and his wife was making him a dessert tonight because it was their anniversary. He was happy to have the work, the wife, the son, the daughter, and cake waiting. He didn’t notice the banana I ate this morning.
I did. It smelled just like a banana. Bananas have a great smell. A smell of tropical things. They smell like a holiday on an island somewhere. A rich aroma of magical fruits that come in bunches and really taste heavenly. Then I peeled it. Slow and easy, partner. Took off its clothes and brought it from covered to naked and ready to eat. The peel would remain and move to my very own compost pile. It would shift. Change to something else. Dirt. That would be garden dirt. That would feed a tomato that I would eat, skin and all, just a few months from now. Today it was the banana’s turn.
It felt like bananas feel when they are naked. Soft yet not. Slippery yet not. I smelled it. Really smelled it. Deep. Let the smell bring back all the memories of all the bananas ever. Safeway bananas. Bananas on the rocks of Waterfall Canyon trail. Bananas in Alaska with Jim Philip who liked old, brown, gushy bananas. Bananas shared with the kids when I was the smartest man in the world and knew everything about anything.
Then I ate it. Slowly. Each bite a kiss of something important. I was Popeye and it was spinach. My muscles felt it from fingers to toes. My energy soared. Shazam! Banana Power!
Life was appealing, joy arrived by the boatload, and all was right in every republic everywhere. I just had a banana. Well, maybe it was more than a banana. Much more. Now I can share it with you. Just had to really feel it and understand it first.
Enjoy your breakfast. Enjoy every single thing you do today. Life is full of bananas.
~ “Everyone wants to peel their own banana.
Someone else said that but I just know I was smart so I said it again.” ~
Atlas Café
The crossing-guard and I exchanged greetings, as has become custom, as he stopped cars for another one of the many people he helped each morning. As I continued on my walk, my reflections were about him and the hundreds, likely thousands, of people he touches every day. Some with just a wave as they ride by again on their way to work just as they do most of their weekdays. Some with the vital talk of familiarity as they go to school. He probably knows a few of their names and greets them by it. “Have a great day at school, Janie.” “Hope you had a great day today, Johnny. See you tomorrow.” Others he likely knows by the color of their coat or their Superman backpack. He knows them and they know him.
He is part of the fiber that holds their days together. A simple part of the routine that helps them belong. The crossing-guard is an everyday hero. So is that person that is almost always the one that gets your morning coffee. As are the short-order cooks, waiters and waitresses, barbers and hairdressers, photo lab folks, clerks, and many, many more. The ones that are there almost every single day and warm your life more in those short connections than most do with much longer opportunities.
The crossing-guard reminded me about the Atlas Café in downtown Tulsa, Oklahoma. Years ago, my job as sales manager had me in Tulsa one week each month. I worked with the sales rep there to grow the business. One of the first things I did was to have her meet downtown so we could find one of the local breakfast/lunch places. We discovered the Atlas Café.
Located in the building of the same name, the Atlas Café is tucked away in the corner of the basement of a building that could have served as the Daily Planet building in the old Superman TV series. The rep and I met there for breakfast and talked shop while we ate. Then I watched. Felt is a better word. I felt the place and the morning rush as workers nourished much more than hunger with breakfast at the local watering hole. The feel of the place sweetened my coffee.
I asked the rep to watch and share what she saw. She watched for a bit and said the crew rarely talked. She said they seemed a bit cold to one another, except the waitress and cashier that dealt with the customers. That made me smile and I had here look again. Feel them. She did. I waited until the quiet awareness showed in her eyes.
“They are a team. A very, very good team. As good as the Yankees. As good as any Super Bowl winner. They are in the zone. Each knows exactly what to do and they do it. Without a word. If we were here before the rush, they would have been smoking and joking. If we stay until after the rush, they will be talking as they ease down from this part of their day. They are a team that serves a hundred plus folks in less than ninety minutes and they are damn good. That is not silence you hear. That is efficiency. That is team work…at its finest.” I explained there were places like this in every town, in every business part, in every neighborhood. Places where, like Cheers said, everyone knew your name. This is where you got to know people and people got to know you. This is where sales reps become more than some face.
She got it. We enjoyed the show while we finished our breakfast. When at the counter to pay the check, I mentioned the delicious breakfast and the amazingly efficient crew. Discovered that the Atlas Café was family owned and operated. Half the crew was related by blood, the other half by sweat. The cashier was one of the daughters of the owners who worked in the café for decades before the kids took it over. She understood how much more than breakfast and lunch they served. She liked being part of the energy of downtown Tulsa every day.
Six weeks later, I was back in Tulsa again and the rep and I made a point of visiting the Atlas Café. This time it was for lunch between appointments downtown. At lunch, the folks lined up, placed their orders, and then went to their tables where the food was brought to them. The rep and I dutifully waited in the rather long line to place the order. When we got to the cash register, the cashier looked up and said, “Welcome back. You going to be in town for a while?” THAT amazed me. The Atlas Café had a life-long fan at that moment. In subsequent visits, I found out the cashier’s husband is a fire fighter in addition to being a short order cook. Met the Mom. Heard about the kids. My visits to the Atlas Café were always one of the highpoints of each trip to Tulsa.
The crossing-guard reminded me of all of that. I am a traveler. Always have been and likely always will be. Still, I savor those places and enjoy the sweetness of familiarity when my life choices allow it. It is comfort. It is warmth. It is belonging.
Several years ago, I had a few years of a relatively regular commute. While business still had me globetrotting, half my days had the same drive to and from the same place. On those days, McDonalds drive-thru was my stop for morning coffee. Coffee, light and sweet. There was a woman that worked there and she was there almost every time I drove through. After only a few visits, she knew my order would usually be just that large cup of coffee, light and sweet. I pulled up and the voice from the box said, “Good Morning, the usual?” It usually was.
I enjoyed that interface each day. Some small pleasantries as she handed the coffee and I handed the cash. Simple things about weather, health, hair, whatever. Was it sixty seconds? Less? More? Whatever it was, it was right.
When life choices took me elsewhere, I knew that cup of coffee, the usual, from that McDonalds would be one of the things I missed the most. She was the reason. The day that was to be my last day driving through, I made a stop prior and hoped to let her know that she would be missed. She greeted me with, “Hi there. Good morning. The usual?” I said yes and drove up to the window. It was the same routine. She handed me the coffee and I handed her the cash. She looked into the car and noticed something and said, “What a lovely rose. Someone is very special.” Inside, I beamed for that was exactly right. I reached for the rose and the card and said, “You are right. Someone is very special.” I handed her the flower. “Just something to say thank you for starting my day with smile. This is my last time driving through, I am headed to Albuquerque but I wanted to thank you for being so pleasant every day. You make a difference every day and I really appreciate it.”
As I drove away, she cried. After I drove away, I cried. Sometimes the usual is very special.
~ “Everything is Love.” ~
Undercover Boss
If there is male menopause, I have it. Why else do I tear up at the stories on “Undercover Boss”? Must be hormonal raging’s that have me choke up when whatever that guy that Katie likes tells the stories based on darts or fingers pointed in space. Stories are getting to me more and more. Those I feel. Those I write. Those I hear.
Blue collar everyday people and their stories get me like the “Here, hit her” scene in Steel Magnolias. I am a walking, talking menstrual show. The best thing about Super Bowl Sunday for this male was that “Undercover Boss” followed the game.
People inspire me. “Undercover Boss” reminded me of that on so many levels. Like Studs Terkel meets American Idol. The Super Bowl commercials were alright. The vignettes on “Undercover Boss’ were awesome. The guy that first out worked, then fired the CEO, and headed to his dialysis session. The young woman that covered three (might have been four) positions, supported three (might have been four) generations, and struggled to even keep her home. The happy, even joyous, man that had the shit sucking all day long job. Literally….he cleaned porta potties every day and was like Tony Robbins with quiet dignity. The CEO learned much about his company and even more about people. His time in the trash heaps, port-o-potties, and garbage trucks discovered the treasure of everyday people living good lives.
For him, it was a wakeup call. He admitted he had tons to learn about where the rubber meets the road. Like the “what the hell?” moment when he held the can that was the female driver’s portable bathroom. Hadn’t even thought about how female drivers relived themselves when on the collection routes until that very moment. More importantly, he acknowledged and acted on all the things he witnessed first-hand…and that was the first show.
The second show was lesser in a way, just as important nonetheless. From waste management to chicken wings and hot pants…quite the transition. That CEO meant well and learned. For me, his dive into the work force was not as deep. I was also a bit disappointed in how he handled some things he discovered. Should have fired the manager that had the girls suck beans from a plate like pigs from a trough for “reindeer” games but didn’t. Should have sat each of the young women down and given them the new number to Hooters just established “My Manager is an Idiot” hotline. Didn’t. Should have diversified his location choices a bit. Hooters plays a lot different in Utah and Mississippi than it does in Texas. Didn’t. Still, he went into the trenches and learned. He helped those he worked with in ways that touched them. He promised change. I hope one of his daughters gives him the opportunity to prove he really would be alright if she hustled beer and chicken wings as a Hooter’s girl. Sometimes the reality of what we say is alright clashes with the reality of what really comes home to roost.
Last week’s episode convinced me my emotions basically had a mind of their own. Is the woman in Long Island that has made 7-11 coffee for over 18 years really that lovable? Maybe I am just a sucker for someone who busts their ass every day, ensures customers feel welcome and known, and then heads to dialysis. Hormonal pulses might explain why Igor and his story of coming to America and living his dream made me proud of what this country can be. Did I really cheer inside where a young man from Pakistan let the CEO of 7-11 know that it was a dead end job?
Blue collar folks get to me. I needed to feel the heroes and only felt where they were not lately. Did not find them on the phone when I talked to the IRS and Utah Tax Folks. Found victims there. Victims that had sympathy, sorta, but wrapped themselves in policies and blame the “they” that is them. I do not see them in Washington or on Wall Street or in board rooms. My heroes showed up on “Undercover Boss”. People. Real people, living real lives.
Blue Collar heroes get me teary eyed. Blue collar folks that refuse to be victims of white collar crimes defended by red, white, and blue. Blue collar folks that get up each day, give their best, and believe in each other. Blue collar folks like my Mom and Dad that gave me a blue collar way of looking at things. Look in the mirror first, then the soul, then the heart, and then worry about what is in your pocket. My caped crusaders wear blue collars.
~ “The Voices in my head are happy with me right now.” ~
No Big News
I get emotional over silly things lately. Walter Cronkite died and I get emotional. Not that his death is silly. It is a death and all have their place and their message. I get emotional about how much he did and how much trust he inspired and how he did his best and made a difference and screwed up along the way and then admitted when he screwed up and was human and cared and loved. Yes, he was very good at what he did. Yet, he was human the entire time. He reached across the airways and informed as well as comforted. He was known and trusted, and honored that trust. He was a man. A very good man. I get emotional over silly things lately. That’s the way it is.
~ “Smiles today nourish tomorrows.” ~
My Father’s Son
Below the emotions are the truth. The opportunity to understand. The chance to truly accept that what you feel about him is really about you. To embrace what you feel and why you feel it. To be in the darkness, weakness, sadness, disappointment, frustration, and anger and feel them for what they are….your issues. To peel back and then peel back again. Lashing self and ripping through the reaction to the catalyst. That is the right thing to do.
The truly human thing is to know that it is all about you. Then to own it and see the chance to be even better. To do even more. To offer even more. To stand by. To be. To continue to reach and love and embrace and welcome.
I wanted to be less. Wanted to speak it in other ways. Wanted to act on it. Wanted to be righteous as well as right. I wanted to be mad. At him. At what he does and does not do. At what he is and what he is not. At what he takes. The proof mounted and then mounted more. Others saw it too. Others felt it too. Witnesses. Evidence increased. I was in the volcano. Became the volcano. Then went into my passion and owned it. Wrestled it to submission and held it to the mirror of my soul.
It is almost right now. Right in what I feel and why I feel it. That is just the beginning. Now it is time to see the opportunity. To know how to do even more and make myself proud of this moment by rising above it. To dive into the greatness of it and soar. It is about me. What I feel about him is about me. What I do with what I feel is about me. He needs me to be more than human. He needs me to be more than what I was and all that I can be. I need that too. I need to be better. Truthful to self and all. To feel totally. I shall face myself….and be myself.
So I write to myself about myself and read and then re-read. To make sure I hear myself. To help me learn and grow. To help me be better than I am. These are my words to me about me. It is always about me. Even when I know for sure it is about him. Especially when I know it is about him. After all, I am his Father.
My love for him is about me. How I deal with him is about me. He needs my best and I shall ensure he gets it. Whenever I wish he were better, I know I need to be better. I need to be at my best…so he can be at his. Fathers lead….by example. All the time. I need to show him my best. What he learns from me is about him. What I teach him by example is about me. It is all about me. I want the best for him…that means I have to give him my best.
The emotions will pass. The choice of Fatherhood is forever. My Father taught me that...by example. Sometimes he treated me like a son. Sometimes he treated me like a man. Even when I was screwing things up….he let me be my own man. He prayed for me to make the right choices. He did his best to let me be. He was there for me. He did his best. I shall do mine.
~ ‘I hope my kids learn as much from me as I did from my parents.” ~
Stolen Good
Her name is Wendy. She is a Fairy. A beautiful creature by just about any measure. Intricate wings. Child sized, adult shape and features. She personifies inclusion, balance, and positivity. All that from a ceramic statue partnered with an slightly taller Angel named Sarah. Wendy adorned Sanctuary…a place of welcome for any seeker. At least she did. Until yesterday. Maybe the day before. Now, Wendy is somewhere else. Someone needed her for reasons beyond my understanding. Now she is somewhere they needed her to be.
Perhaps she is in their back yard and people will comment on her as they did when she at home in Sanctuary. They might ask about the small hole in the seashell that she holds close to her lips. I often wondered about that shell. Had she just taken a refreshing drink from it? Was she blowing sweet air into it and spreading Fairy dust on the wind? It looked innocent and beautiful, whatever she was doing and is now doing somewhere else.
Maybe some kids fell in love with her and decided that kidnapping was the way to make her theirs. Perhaps she is in a pawnshop now on the way to a place that will benefit from the energy of Sanctuary that she enhanced and the enhanced her. If she was pawned, I hope the cash obtained was for long term healing. Perhaps food on the table rather than hungry children. If so, come back and be welcomed at our table along with your family. If the money was needed to feed weakness, I pray her energy will touch you long enough to find your strength to heal and mend.
Wendy is of the light. The light moves now. To places needed. Some Higher Power moves Wendy from where she was to someplace more important. She is moved to touch someone else and remind them of beauty and peace. Her gentle majesty will be seen by eyes that need that comfort wherever she lands. Beings of Light are moved to where they are needed.
Sarah is still here. She was right alongside of Wendy when the stealth visitor(s) moved her. Sarah’s wings need to be mended……perhaps that is what kept her from flight on that night. Her wings will be repaired soon and she will be available for any that wish to see her in Sanctuary. Just as Wendy was. After all, Sanctuary is to be shared…even in the dark of the night. Maybe especially then for reasons we just have to trust even when we do not understand.
Go get ‘em, Wendy. Light in motion. Thanks for reminding me.
“I try to be kind to jerks. Sometimes it’s hard. After all, they are jerks.”
The Vandal
On this morning's power walk, there was a very telling encounter. An encounter directly related to changes as of late. An encounter that resulted in a practical application of lessons that reinforced the wonders of growth.
It happened towards the end of the walk. There was an underpass on the well maintained walkway to allow walkers/bikers/hikers to bypass on of the many busy streets in Phoenix. An underpass that was very clearly a tunnel. A chokepoint of sorts and known to have dangers associated therein. This particular underpass dropped the path to about 10 foot below the roadway. It has a few lights, more token than effective, but this morning was also lit by the already risen sun. There was a point less than 1/3 of the way in the base of the underpass where there was no view of the landscape. For a stretch, the tunnel was all there was to see.
As I proceeded down the path to the tunnel itself, there was a vandal (A word choice I shall explain in a moment). A person walked from just being visible and moved back to out of sight. Then he eased into full sight just at the mouth of the tunnel and stood as I moved down the path toward the very mouth of the tunnel where he stood as if sentinel.
I continued confidently on my path and factored in his presence as what it was.....something unexpected and unwanted on the way. The path was still the path and I moved to the mouth of the tunnel. I noticed as he moved one hand from a pocket to his side and knew that I would rebuff any physical approach immediately. The journey continued.
At the very mouth of the tunnel, I was destined to pass within 2 feet of him and factored this into the actions to continue on my chosen path. "Good Morning".......words delivered with direct eye contact as I passed him in the opening where he stood and I traveled.
The vandal delayed his response but did return the greeting in similar wording but much different energy. The energy of one unsure. I continued on my journey and was about 10 foot into the tunnel when he returned to motion......he followed me into the tunnel. I let him see as I turned my head slightly as my pace remained even and true. The vandal spoke, "You look familiar."
My voice was calm as I continued walking but pivoted my upper torso towards the vandal with my arm extended in a stop-motion and said, "No I don't, buddy. Stay the hell back." My pace did not alter and there was calmness in my voice that reassured me and touched him in quite the opposite way.
He mumbled something about losing something and moved at a slower pace now but continued in the same direction as me. "Just keep back" were the words as I continued on. There was some mumbling from him then and he continued towards me but my pace remained true and his slowed. I turned without slowing so the vandal knew that his position relative to mine was known. He again mumbled something. "Yeah, I’m looking to make sure you stay back there" were my words as my journey continued.
The vandal followed me from the tunnel and up into the day and even lingered on the trail for a while as the encounter in the tunnel receded to the distance. His pace slowed and mine remained the same as when I entered the tunnel where he trolled.
Why vandal? The word surfaced earlier on the walk on a sign marking some public access property that might be closed due to vandalism. My thoughts on the word moved beyond trying to understand those that vandalize and more to the results of the actions. Vandalism is a negative thing and to try and understand it would have me focus on the negative and thus let it win....if we focus on the results of vandalism, we can see the desired outcome and not let the act win. Vandals are destroyers. They seek to divert resources and attention from things of growth and beauty. They mar and slow. Why? Quite frankly, I do not care to know for that would be a victory for them.
The vandal at the tunnel was there to slow. He was there to move energy of growth to energy of fear or worry. Had I turned from my path, his victory would have only begun. He would have crossed the tunnel and waited for me on an alternate path since my very motion announced my direction. He may have had me divert for blocks, seek assistance or union, or find an entirely new path. The choice of continuing on held some dangers as well for he may have acted in the physical to slow or even end my journey. The vandal was there to slow and I made the choice that this would not happen.
Some may say that I did not have the choice that it would not happen. The vandal could have attacked me and then my path would clearly be slowed. *smile* Quite frankly, you are wrong. My path was the path of not being diverted and to handle the consequences of my choice to continue. If he had attacked, the outcome would have been quite different but my path is still my path. I would handle the outcome of my choice and I will handle the outcome of every one of my choices. That is life. That is Truth. That is growth.
The vandal energized me. Hope he finds his joy and peace. If not, that is his choice.
~ “Stay out of the fight as long as you. Stay in it as little as you can.” ~
Calling Cards
Burning Man called to me last night. A whisper on a breeze from a place that knows when to infuse me. So I opened and felt the call. Felt what was there last year and what would be there this time. It was being called to something months away…knowing I would be there and be a very different being than the man that went into the desert last year. A far different being. It took years for me to heed the call to my first Burning Man. Now, I opened to the infusion on the mere hint of a quiet whisper. It was an infusion of acceptance. The linkage of energy and touch was Burning Man’s gift to me as the old burned in the forging fires of change. I shall bring hone that gift and share it in the desert of change that call me home again.
Tarot calls now and I shall learn the Mayan Oracle and the cards that are meant for others to feel and see. The Oracle is a guide and I shall open to its messages. Oc reached from the deck this day and was there in chambers with SHAMAN in ways that are right and true. There will a deck that shall touch Eden, APEX, and Black Rock City.
The Garden calls to me and chaos shall be accepted into the order. More chaos tomorrow and the next day and then time will tell of the synergy, energy, seeding, harvesting, cycles, circles, and more. It is a virgin garden and will blossom and multiply for many years to come.
Tonight, I shall read, touch, listen, and be. Taking in as pure as an infant showed me today in a surprise visit. Taking in. Being part of by the processing and knowing what gifts are to be shared when asked to touch, read, comfort, and know.
Yes, all of these things are related. All things are related. Even the stuff we see much clearer now while the awakening continues.
~ “Trust nourishes what questions choke.” ~
Black Rock City
Black Rock City moves to reality again. It calls to me from the desert as it moves to life as Mecca, Emerald City, Shangri-La, Heaven, and Home. It was in my dreams last night and in my thoughts on the walk this morning. A welcomed loved one saying all is well and more would come to the well this year. It let me know it was back again in this realm as it had been two years ago when I first crossed into it. The lessons embraced me this day and reminded me I am a Burner.
Burning Man was my vision quest. Clarity kissed me and penetrated my every pore at Black Rock. Money moved from godlike status. It was on the descent in my heart for years. The balance of barter and sharing on the Playa pierced the veil on my soul and freed me. Inclusion spread from inside of me to all around me on those nights of drumming spirituality and has spread each day since. That wildfire forged hope in this seeker as the taste of what can be sweetened my world. I was changing before my virgin trip into the Nevada desert. I was birthed there and emerged as Changeling.
Black Rock touched me again last year although life kept me in other places. It does so again this year and will each and every year regardless of where I am. Burning Man transcends time and space. It is more than a place or an event. It is proof, reassurance, and hope of Paradise Earth. It is the opportunity to live as the world can be, was, and will be again. It grows every year and spreads across the planet as Burners change inside and gift that change everywhere they go. More will learn of it this year and enough will live its truth once they do. The Pilgrimage is underway and the light of Black Rock City beckons once again. Travel well, Burners.
~ “Fresh cut French Fries at 4 in the morning with Elvis in Black Rock City. Need more proof? ~
Burning Man Revisited
This time years ago I was in Black Rock City. A Burner was born thirteen moons, times three, ago. The nights found me in Center Camp, enjoying the flow. Recharging after a day of energy massages. A cup of coffee. Anticipating fresh cut French Fries from the big ketchup bottle. Just being. The conversations happened each night and each was special in its own way.
Black Rock City is felt again this year even though it is there and I am elsewhere. It calls to me. To celebrate where I was and where I am. Each time I try to embrace where I am not, it falls to the ground in uselessness. That feels nice. To know that place is in me all the time. It woke me at 3:30 and I traveled there for hours while the day was busy being born. It was a feel of what was there and the change there and in myself in the time since. The Burner moved for the City shines like the light that it is.
There were many special moments in Black Rock City. The ones that called to me this night are the ones between the day and sleep. After Center Camp and French fries and wandering. Alongside the tent and by myself. In a chair, connecting to the moon and the movement that is that place that Burners know. That is what I felt now and feel more and more. When there, it was time to know there were lessons deep and rich and vital and more. Now, it is to know that lessons are lived. I felt their importance while in the energy of Burning Man. I understand their importance more with the energy of Burning Man within the changed male. To give of self and know that community balances the book of needs for all there. To include, share, accept, simplify, celebrate, and more. Lessons felt that night, lived this night, and honored all nights.
Others are there now. Each will be touched in their way. Each has the opportunity to rise from the fire of the Burn new and better. This night is my night to feel that and wish them newly forged truths. I am Burner, wherever I am.
~ “Know Peace, No War.” ~
Gone Fishin’
I went fishing many months ago. Zen fishing. Just sat on the grass around a stocked pond in an upscale housing complex and welcomed the fish. There was a peace inside of me and I let it radiate to welcome the fish and enjoy their company. Soon, they gathered. A distance away but there were dozens of them. Lazing. Just being. Yet distanced from me. So I went deeper into the peace and radiated it even more. Inviting them. Inviting them to trust and be welcomed so that we could mutually enjoy each other’s company.
Perhaps the area where I sat was just not a place they frequented. So I moved. Closer to where they were at ease. They scattered when I did but I settled in and waited from them to accept me.
Karma trumped my Zen. The fish remembered. They remembered being caught and released. They remembered the hooks and the hookers. They did not trust me because I was one of them. Those that brought them here to catch them and release them in the ultimate lie of bait and switch. They were captives in a gilded cage. In this case, a beautiful pond where they were enticed with food to bite the hook, be shown as prize in a place close to their death, and then returned to their hell on earth.
I am a vegetarian and do not fish for sport, food, bravado, company, adventure, solace, or tradition. Raised near a bay and less than a dozen miles from the ocean, fishing and what draws some to it eluded me as did hunting. Used to joke that I would only hunt what I would eat with a weapon I can handle and they did not let me hunt chickens and cows in a Buick. Now, even the chickens and cows are safe since my carnivore days in that manner are over by my evolved choices.
Karma trumped my Zen and helped me see we must choose individually while healing collectively. Zen fishing invites. Karma waits to see if we can be trusted. Our dominion over fish stinks and we have to let the wind of change blow the stink off of us. Maybe some other day they will be biting.
~ “Sometimes Yin-Yang feels more like Ping-Pong.” ~
Waterfall Canyon
When in Ogden, Utah, head towards the mountains. Where 29th Street kisses the foothills, you will find, appropriately enough, the 29th Street trailhead. There is parking, a few signs, and even a Portapotty, depending on the rulers of the portapotties. The 29th Street trailhead links to several trails including the one that goes to Waterfall Canyon. Go there.
Although the entire hike is scenic, one of the trails is called the scenic route. It is a bit longer yet worth it since it is more tree covered and climbs easier than the shorter alternative. Either choice makes for a good outing. If you are likely to hike Waterfall Canyon only once, I recommend the scenic route. Just because.
The first bridge is where you ask for permission. This might be a new thing for many hikers. Why ask permission? Is there a bridge troll that grants it? Who are you asking? Open up to what can be. Ask permission. Ask your Higher Power. Ask Gaia. Ask the bridge troll. (Although he or she has yet to make an appearance to my knowledge.) Ask permission to move deeper into nature. Use the time to feel what you seek that day on that hike. Remind yourself that this is nature and it gives. It gives peace, insights, answers, comfort, solace, and serenity…and that is on the slow days. Ask even if only to remember that all of this is a gift. A gift to you that is there for the asking.
When asking for permission, ask for other things as well. We all have needs. Hikers know that…even sometimes or one time hikers. The Magickal Force of the first bridge hears. I know because I asked for things. Things I needed that date and on that hike. My request for a guide was answered tenfold the day of the asking. Another request to witness “the gathering” resulted in wonderful insights about the changes that come. Ask and it shall be given. The first bridge is another opportunity to remember that. Use it.
The first bridge is also my own personal breakfast nook, although anyone that wishes to use it may do so. One rock for sitting. Another for the backpack. The sounds of the running brook sweetly serenaded many a morning banana for this fortunate seeker of permission. The breakfast nook at the First Bridge is a nice place to remember to pack out whatever you pack in. That is balance. Pack out more than you packed in by removing some of the evidence of the trashers and you tip the scales of life in your favor. The breakfast nook is also a great place to ensure your turned off the cellular phone and whatever else you think you need to be linked to the world. Turning them off makes the linkage to the real world even realer. It lets you “be here” when here with Mother Nature. If you need the cellular phone to make an emergency call, you can turn it on later. Put it at your disposal for a nice change of pace.
Waterfall Canyon trail is the left turn just a bit after the first bridge. It is not marked and that makes it even better. You gotta know and now you do.
As you begin up that trail, notice the evidence of man’s attempt to harness the flow. What a fitting tribute to the course of life that flows where it needs despite our efforts to harness what flows so freely.
There is a second bridge as well. A place deserving of the name Grotto so I hereby call it such. Recommend a pause at the Grotto. Just to be. Perhaps you’ll be reminded, as I was, that the way up is sometimes behind you. Good food for thought regardless of your path.
Further up the trail to the Waterfall itself are two places worthy of pause. The first is Treehuggle. So named by the locals because of the tree hugging hippies that used to get high there before reaching the waterfall, Treehuggle is barely noticeable as a small clearing where trees and rocks offer respite and solitude. It is amazingly bigger than it seems though since there are numerous rocks for sitting on both sides of the stream. Seems each rock has its own tree. Rumor has it; the hippies would solve all the world’s issues quite regularly at Treehuggle.
Those that frequent Waterfall Canyon know that Treehuggle also represents choice. The trail to the Waterfall actually doubles here and hikers can choose which side of the stream is their way up. Seems right that the hippies got high at a place where you can choose which path takes you higher on your path.
Further up the trail is another place worthy of pause…Watcher Rock. Yes, it is an excellent vantage point to see who travels the path to the Waterfall. This rock formation has two large eyes that watch both paths and all travelers. It offers shade, respite, and observation. Just a short distance from the Waterfall itself, Watcher Rock also offers hikers an opportunity to cross the stream and choose to hike the other side, which of course depends on what side of the stream you are on and if you want to change. Decisions, Decisions. Watched all the time. How fitting.
There is the namesake of the trail just a short distance above Watcher Rock. The water sometimes pours, other times cascades, and has even been known to dribble over the cliff and into the canyon for all there to enjoy. As Waterfalls go, it is pretty typical. Not quite Niagara or Victoria while much better than what is in any of your backyards, regardless of how insecure you are. The Waterfall is worth the hike. Some play in the water. Others sit on the rocks. People have been known to camp up there. Seems everyone there is linked somehow. Friendly. Greeting each other, smiling. Maybe Waterfalls are social areas. Maybe hikers are just social folks. Maybe it is all of that and more. Let’s go with that. It is more. Much more.
Waterfall Canyon is much more and it is yours. Just remember to ask permission, pack out what you pack in, and that you will be the better for having visited. The price of admission is energy. Use it and you will have more when you are done. Good deal. Even at twice the price.
~ “A babbling brook makes perfect sense to me.” ~
Waterfall Canyon Hike
I thought I knew the path. Turned out it had a few twists and turns more than I remembered. Made a few wrong turns. It felt different. Like a new path. Like something more new than old. So I walked. It tested me. It comforted me. It helped me.
At the first bridge, I asked permission to cross. Something new for me. Wondered if a troll would pop out and snarl, “Well, what are you waiting for!?” Instead I waited to feel the message. Leaned on a rock and waited. Saw the message after a few moments. Another bridge. The right one. A natural one of a mighty tree turned bridge just a few feet from the man-made one. I smiled, said thanks, and crossed.
Just on the other side was a walking stick. Placed right there for use. I smiled again and used it, already knowing I would return it to this very spot so other seekers had the staff as well.
Along the way, I peeled back the darkness and challenges of late. Going beyond the what’s and who’s and how’s and into the whys. Why would SOURCE limit me so? Why would SOURCE clip my wings so clearly? That is when, much like the bridge, I crossed the path in a new way…a slightly different way. I opened to feel the right thing to do accepting what has come to pass.
I continued to walk. Found a few places to rest and relax so did that as well. At my highest point on the hike, the view inspired and comforted. It helped me see the scale of my issues and challenges. It comforted and opened me to feel globally. How what I do does and will impact the globe. How I can use the acceptance and rise even higher to service and place. How the very offering I am could be even better and touch more.
The hike helped. The path is very different. The traveler is as well. I made wrong turns, was unsure if even on the path at times, struggled over some tough spots, and slipped on my ass as well. Today, I hiked.
~ “Magic you can explain ain’t magic.” ~
Malan Way
The journeyer headed forth. It was late to travel but travel he did. Sirens whistled and his canine headed into the woods and over the mountains to heed the call. Brooks learned flowed differently and even elsewhere as the path moved steeply to places far away but just out of sight. Each step was earned long ago. Paid for with nights of wonder and sleeps alone. Each footfall drummed questions asked in places far away and delivered on this path and this place and this switchback over these mountains and through this land of unsettled change.
He moved through Black Rock and carried burning ember of truths forward to deserts and mountains that drew him onward. The Temples of Machu Picchu flared their torches high in the sky to fire the altar-ations of ceremonies and rituals within him. The Yaquis teamed with him as he relearned games only thought understood. He moved through smoke and inhalations to healing and transformation.
The spider dangled before his inner Alice and steeped time well before drinking. Dream pools filled with monkeys and seats already taken at tables meant for others anyway. The traveler was schooled and comforted while adrift on new waves and currency. On the mountaintop, he was asked and thusly answered in the sharing. As the day the night and the night the day, the new way is shown.
~ “A tree fell in the forest. I clapped…but only with one hand since I didn’t actually hear it fall.” ~
Pre-October
The rain was cold and pushed to the warmth of doing. It was that feeling of being better. Better than I could have been by staying in out of the rain. Better than waiting for later when the skies were clearer. Better than the guy who almost did that. It was the feeling of making the better choice for me. I do not need to be better than anyone else. I need to be better than I could be.
So out I went and it was cold. October arrived a day early. The sky was the gunmetal flowing ooze color of autumn’s first real storm. Leaves already matted the ready-slick asphalt. The wind bit right through the light jacket and laughed. I huddled into myself and stepped into the season.
I am cold right now and liking it. Headed to the shower knowing it will be warmer and that cleaner will be crisper as well. Hope the rain lasts.
~ “Doing trumps done.” ~
Stormy Night
The rain bulleted my face and I ignored its poetry. Alright, I stored it away but ignored it right then. Poetry was a maybe sometime later. Right now it was dark, cold, and the storm matched my insides.
Music? Later, too. This was tuning up time…….it could be named later.
The wind sang and I gritted my teeth in harmony, misery, and movement. Ahead. Back there. Just not here. I was one step behind where I needed to be so I walked. One foot ahead of the other, both aching to feel in stride. Walk. Move. Just into the night. Into the darkness.
The moon was up there, I was down here, and we both knew it.
No one knew I was here and no one cared to know. That was how it needed to be. Alone. No one’s anyone. Just me. Forgotten quicker than things never noticed. Even the ones that forgot me didn’t know me. They couldn’t. I wasn’t me when they knew me. I was someone else.
Now, I was this guy. Creature of the night feeling all my yesterdays and no tomorrows.
Now was all that mattered. This storm would pass. Maybe. I really didn’t care. Storms sucked me in and took me deep. Real deep. Cold. Wet. No place to go and nobody was expecting me. I was a surprise and that was perfectly alright to me.
Boo, Motherfucker. Boo-Hoo, bobba-louie. Boo-fucking-Hoo. Boo-fucking-Who.
~ “Jesus said “Boo” and laughed when I jumped.” ~
Clown
There was a clown in my dream. Hi, my name is Gil. Can you hear me now? Put on quite the show. Ah, yes. The world tour. The world as I knew it. McRand’s jolly old sphere of “Wow, look at all the places!” Hillary, dillery, hickory, dickery, oh, such trickery, what’s up, Doc? The male ran around the block. A few times. Just to be heard. Just to know what to say. Just to be polite. To make a long story short. Then…Pop, went his weasel.
They quit listening. Just as you found your voice, they quit listening. Now, hear this. Now hear this.
Vampires cut you a new opening. Opened you up right where you crave. Vampires, Witches, Warlocks, and more. Magick in all shapes and sizes. Yowsa, Yowsa, Yowsa. Presto Lunch…….get the point? Get the points? So many points. She heard you cream. She heard you scream. Surely a mistake. Is this what I ordered? I thought I ordered the pizza. You wanna piece of me? That piece of me?! All They are saying, is give piece a chance. Open Ses’ame Her. Open Sesame. Sesame Street. Sesame seeds. Hot cross buns. Pussy doing well?
Jolted awake. Pulled back to the news. Kicking not. Screaming not. Whimpering soft and lower and lower. Victory? Weapons of mass destruction? Bushed? Junior Mint maker. Bank banker. Naysayer. King layer. Like father? Like son? Make room for Daddies way. Clueless leaders of rag tag armies. A boy trying to bring home the bacon. Trying to fry it up. Play it like pan. Flutes and Chutes and Ladders to nowhere going up the down staircase. Born on third base and thinks he hit a triple. Well played. Surprise, Surprise, Gomer…they don’t like you. They don’t know you. If they did, they would like you less. If you did, maybe you would change. Likely not. In the comfort zone. The place of no resistance. The place of many secrets that attracts the how do we keep what we have and get more of what they have before they get a clue about how much we have crowd. Such good boys becoming such good mensch. Don’t mention it. Don’t mention the unmenschable.
Your best was not good enough. Hand me down this. Hand over that. Nice and easy. Keep your hands away from your gun. Inside the ride……all of you. We’re watching. Everything you do. We know your Achilles heel and it is right between your legs. We will kick you in your one eye if you make a wrong move. Failure smack. Sugar snack. Coco krispied. Doing great? Greeeeeaaaaaattttttt. Put a little sugar on those and you won’t know the difference. Nana. Neener. Nanny-Nanny, Boo-Boo. Stick your head in…….oh, no you don’t. Close but no cigar. Not even that one. No peaking. Peeking out from under the blanket like that. Tsk, Tsk. Look, Ma, no hands. No mouth. No touchy, no feely. No ticky, no shirty. Wanted to go there. Be there. Be gone. Out damn spot! Look at spot run. So much for Dick and Mary Jane. Smoke ‘em if you got ‘em.
This pizza is taking too long. These pretzels are making me thirsty. Woody Allen. Woody Woodpecker. Ah, that laugh. That laugh. Their laugh. Reassures then reassures again. Re-Reassures. Doe, Ray, and Me and Jack Swift and his Electric Grandmother.
Too much wash for the machine. The agitated will agitate. Just don’t overload the machine. You will break it. You will have to….it almost broke you and you know its weakness. You are its weakness. As least you used to be. The clueless led by the weak hiding behind walls with your head up your ass while you filled your pockets and they picked the pockets of the world. Alle Alle outside. Neither Fish nor Black Rock Foul. Time for another dream? Don’t worry, sleep is easier once you surrender and realize how hard you worked.
Who don’t know the pairing?
They don’t know the pairing.
She don’t know the pairing.
The mirror tells more than the TV. Even the widest screen. Don’t be afraid to scream. No one can hear you scream in space. This space available. That space available. Man, have I got a deal for you. You came first, she came after, and you know hers was better. Keeping all that inside. Keeping all that inside where it shines out her eyes and doesn’t stain the sheets. Is that a road in the mirror? Can you fall right in? Can you ease on down that road?
Down the road and into the inkwell.
Clown.
Clown.
Down you go.
Clown.
Clown.
There was a clown in my dreams. Each one of them. Three ring circus, band on the run, and x marks the spot. See, Spot run. Run, Spot, Run. The Clowns will get you if you don’t watch out. Run, Spot, Run.
Silly spot. What a clown. There was a clown in my dreams. There always is. After all, they are my dreams. The world loves a clown.
~ “Dreams are just the beginning.” ~
Windows
Come look in my window. My soul is yours to see.
Writers show their inner works. Daring. Sharing. Cleaning out the darkest corners and letting them see the light through others’ eyes. Hiding places disappear no matter how hard you look for them. When you are up, the façade is far away. When you are down, the facade is even farther away.
Life on display. Slight of hand in character. Lettering in the school of the living. Stories that take you right along with them and taunt you to speak of what you see, feel, hear, touch, and know. Show it to the world. Figure it out in tandem with others you have not met but that get to see you naked. Unfiltered. Unfettered.
It is daunting. Less and less once you surrender to the Muses. It intimidates. Less so than silence. Silence is where you feel. Writing is where you speak. Reading is where you learn. Thinking about what you write is much safer. Not writing at all is death. The choice to bury your gift on an unmarked map to treasure turning to dust. I write because death is for later and silence is for cowards. Speaking passes. Writing remains to be seen. What I write remains to be seen.
There are many windows in my soul. Some have pains in them. Others look out on wide vistas of amazing beauty. The rooms in my soul that do not have windows actually do have windows. Peek through the walls where I think to hide. Hiding is unspoken things. Come look in the zoo as my animal shows itself. Don’t be afraid. It would turn on itself before it turned on you. Hurt is best kept inside and torn to shreds by the one who birthed it. No one can hurt me as well as I can hurt myself. My words hurt sometimes. Healing hurts sometimes. My words scare me more and more because there are so many more in there then I realized. Into the fray I go.
Open the window. It might get pretty hot in here. Likely to be pretty dang windy, too. ‘Tis the Season.
~ “Secrets separate.” ~
Word Power
The written word is powerful. It can retell the past, predict the future, open minds, and break hearts. It comes in short story, poem, book, articles, letters, and more. Books stores thrive. Section after section and aisle after aisle.
Reading comes in four types. How to, What if, Make Believe, and Think. We need a bit of each at different times. You determine the trend in your reading because your core values determine what you choose to read and feed and be.
How to. If you need explanation of what that means, there is likely a book out there that can help.
What if. Likely the place for most written words. What if this hadn’t happened or happened some other way? What if we could do this or go there and be this? What if this happens? What if these are really true? What if you really could be eight foot tall, a different gender, and that alien hottie did want to mate with you? What if?
Make believe. Let’s just pretend. Can be pretty close to What If but folks that enjoy Make Believe tend to let the story stay as enjoyment versus wish list. This category helps with the How To and What If categories because if you look for What If or How To and it turns out to be Make Believe, you know you were screwed.
Think. My favorite category. Words that make you think. You know them when you read them. Sometimes you go silent. You close the book stunned. If you speak, it is usually in small bursts. “Wow”. “Hmmmm”. Thinking words live up to their name, they make you think. About you. About what you do and what you should do and what you did and how you can change and how you can be more you and many more things. Thinkers find these words in How To, What If, and Make Believe.
Just something to think about. Me? I am a writer. I learn how to write words that make you think beyond the what-ifs and know that make believe can be true. Words can be that powerful. I respect their power. I think.
~ “If you take your words lightly, be even more brilliant in silence.” ~
Barbie’s Butt Crack
Let’s talk about Barbie and her butt crack. Barbie. You know the one. The “that bitch has everything” one. She made me think about words. I like words. Have I mentioned that? Hopefully, I have. If not, let me mention that now. I like words. Because words shape our world. We have to use them correctly.
Words are powerful and it takes practice to hear beyond gender and balance the hearing as well as the later sharing. Here are some tips to hone listening and hearing skills.
Words associated with one gender can still be in balance when there is a counterpart for the other gender. For example……..King-Queen, Priest-Priestess, Waiter-Waitress, and others. CAUTION--seemingly balanced pairs may actually be imbalanced if one is perceived as more powerful than the other. If you hear King and Queen and realize that you have been taught that King trumps Queen…use Ruler. Be cautious there as well for if you hear “Take me to your Rulers” and instantly think the foreigners will be led to males…even Rulers is out of balance in your vocabulary. The way you think and feel words is your vocabulary because that how you will use words.
Some words are out of balance based on what we have been taught to see when we hear them. The list is long and here are but a few: Doctor, lawyer, Indian Chief, plumber, technician, nurse, President, soldier, hero, pilot, race car driver, cop, Ship Captain (two words but it applies), CEO (not a word but it applies), homemaker, truck driver, Dominant, submissive, Owner, and others.
There are even words that are defined and then refined to gender. Quite possibly, the best example is God. God the Father. God the Son. God the Holy Spirit…if the Holy Spirit is a bird of any gender it is likely flying as a male. Yahweh. The Big Kahuna. All males. We were taught we were created in His Image. Hmmmmm. Rains on the parade of existence for that other gender.
Hear beyond gender. It will be a challenge but in that challenge is opportunity. Opportunity greater than equality. Opportunity greater than semantics. Opportunity of balance.
Think of the world that opens…even for someone like Barbie. Remember her…from back in paragraph one? Barbie was lots of things….flight attendant, model, pilot, maid, doctor…and more. We need Barbie the plumber. That alone would change the image of plumber’s crack forever. Yummy! Work those pipes!
~ “I knew the address of her erogenous zones. Knocked on her door, but she wasn’t home.” ~
Up-Write
Her writing bitch-slapped me awake. She was Phillip Marlow in a skirt. I called myself a writer and saw all the pedestrian, safe shit that flowed from me lately. Enough was enough. Her poem embarrassed me into action. Shamed me into performance. That’s what words can do. The right words. Arranged so pretty and sharp. They cut. Mightier than the sword indeed. Sugar coated shit was still shit.
Sure, I am a storyteller. Have tons of stories. Started one the other day. A nice one. A good message one. Even wrote it a new way. Outline first. The nuns would like that. Fuck that. The nuns ain’t lookin’ anymore. I am a writer and that doesn’t mean doing things the easy way. Maybe not even the right way. It means writing. Spill your guts. Vomit your soul on the page. The reader will decide if it stinks like puke or smells like chocolate, fucking chip cookies. It’s their nose that you write for. Don’t blow smoke up your own ass and call it art.
Writers writing for themselves are jacking off. Impotent closet queens of denial. Limp wimps. Whatever the word for fucking useless, fill in your own blank. Don’t kid yourself. Have a gift? Bullshit. You have a delusion. Write. That’s what writers do. If nobody reads it, it died wordlessly in the forest of nothingness that is your own fear.
The story I started the other day was good. It was a nice story. I might even write it. A nice message. See beyond money. Step out of the insanity that we call life. Live clean and pure and free as a jaybird with a middle finger in the air for all to see. It takes balls. It takes guts. It takes body parts. Hell, it takes hearts and minds and souls. Yours. It takes everything you have and everything you know and wraps it up, shakes it up, and rearranges it. You are just along for the ride. Yeah, it is a good story. Maybe I should write it. Maybe I should just cut to the chase and tell you to think about what is really important. Tell you that money ain’t God so wake up, heathen, and get a clue. Do all that in 50 words or less and then tell more.
Wrote a lot of poems lately. Some rhymed. The more powerful ones skipped beats. Poems got me out of my own voice box. Lines form to the right. No frontsies-backsies. Screw the lines. I’ll pay later. Write now.
Spitting out this stuff feels good. Roller coaster good. No brakes. No breaks. Leaps and bounds and twists and turns. That’s where the passion is. It ain’t watching the train go by. It’s riding the cyclone of life while eating a hot dog with all the trimmings. I don’t do hot dogs no more. They stuff them with stuff they should have thrown out. We grill them up and wave flags while we eat the garbage they feed us. Hot Dogs are the perfect American food. Pass the relish and pop open a cold one, brothers and sisters, we are on top of the world. Let the fireworks begin.
Somewhere along the way, trust fizzled. I stopped trusting. Wondered. What was right? What was wrong? The negative wrapped around me like a shiny new cloak and burned the retinas of naiveté. Tried to look away. Didn’t. Couldn’t. Saw the façade as a façade and faced it. About faced it. Two faced it. Went inside. Deep inside. The world kept right on spinning, pretty globe all aglow, its cancer denied with less and less credibility each day. Me? I am just average Joe. Nothing more. Nothing less. Just me and a few million more like me just doing the best we could to breathe and laugh and do the right things. Then the concept of right left and left me as far from right as I’d ever been. That was when the trouble began. Maybe that was the trouble ended. Too early to tell that right now. The story unfolds as I unravel. Re-look. Re-think. Re-do. Do-Re-Me. Me? Thought I was doing things right and pure and good while being just another part of the scam. If you are part of the joke, is the joke on you? Are you the joke? Who’s kidding who? I was kidding myself with a slight of hand David Copperfield and all the Artful Dodgers would envy. I fooled myself with the harlequin romance of the red, white, and blue.
Twenty-eight years in the military. Part of something proud and true and noble. Then I peeked behind the curtain. Maybe it was behind. Were the curtains opened or closed? Was I on the outside looking in or the inside looking out? Was it a show within a show? Was it all part of the show? I thought I was in the audience. Who was what side of the curtains? Was this a dream? Dream, dream, dream. All I have to do is dream. A dream come true. Wake up and see if the dream was the dream or the waking up was the dream. Time to wake up. Confess. Come clean. Rise and Shine. True Confessions? Step right up, the show’s about to begin. Step right up. ID Cards. Top Secret Clearances. Cluster bombs stocked on boats in the Indian Ocean. The best show on the Midway. Was I in that show? Whose side is whose? Was it my side that kills and threatens and soars in the face of any that doubted America dominated the world? How young was I when I joined? How old was I was I left? Left when I did not get a promotion that was mine based on time in grade, square filling, soul giving, and mass dedication. Mass dedication not enough? Here. Have some mass destruction. Let’s promote the general welfare with some general warfare. Maybe I would have made General. Would have fared better in general. Fair enough? What’s fair is fair. I was fairly clueless, part of something fairly ridiculous, and left fairly human. Left proud but walked away with my dignity intact. Looked back and saw my blindness. A stitch in time saved nine. I was in stitches.
I believed. It was from the heart of that young pledge of alleger. A heart taught by the nuns, fed by the comic books, warmed by the parades, and filled over time with the Sands of Iwo Jima. I believed. People believed in me. Stripe by stripe, I did my time. Celebrated the bars of my rank and drank in the toasts of my successes. Walked the line soberly up the staircase down into my own blindness.
Travel opened me. Germany was beer and schnitzel and thinking in other currency. It was also Dachua and the feel of evil underfoot. Hot to the touch with the burning logic of hate. England was theater for a Jersey kid that lived a million miles from the price of a Broadway ticket. It was crap food, crappier weather, and two hundred years of “where did our world go?”. Turkey was the feel of the ancient places where civilization still struggled to be civilized. The places speak, even when unheard. They screamed at me until I listened.
This is the way of the Traveler. Lessons in the going and the being there and the having been there. It is purpose and place and all the stuff we say when we feel like what we are and what we do matters. The sword of learning pierced me at the jugular as I tumbled around the planet bleeding to life. The pulse of global locomotion, my life support, changed the very life it supported. Living is much better that dying and thinking it is life.
Tumbleweeds are dead things. The thorny roll of rootless pricks across the and. Dry. Barren. Annoying. Held only in snag. Plant corpses zombied by the wind and jammed into the traffic of the living. We brake for them. Curse at them. Bob and weave around them. Crush and burn them should they gather. The tumbleweeds are heartless. They do not give. They can’t give. They don’t know how. You gotta have heart to give. Tumbleweeds don’t give. They do not receive. They are the ultimate homeless. Home is where the heart is. Tumbleweeds were something else at one time. Something with a heart. Something with a home. Rooted. Now they are the rolling dead. They are in the way. They used to just annoy me. Now they piss me off.
Fuck the tumbleweeds and their bounce of nothingness. Life is a celebration. A hurrah bansheed by the bold. Celebrated in the moonlight while cowards huddle by their puny fires and hope to hell that sound in their darkness is the wind. It is the wind, chickenshits. The wind of change that sweeps in from an angry ocean. Tumbleweeds are off the ship before anything or anyone else. Woman and children first my ass. Tumbleweeds ride out of town at even the hint of storm and roll from the thunder long before it reaches our ears. Tumbleweeds run from everything and waltz the coward cha-cha downwind. Cowardice is ugly and pricks everything it touches.
I’ve been pricked. I’ve been a prick. Pricks are a dime a dozen. A penny an inch but you better measure it yourself because pricks are short on truth and long on promises. Rub them the right way and they are yours forever. Forever measured between last time and next time. It’s all about the prick and getting ahead. Thank you, come again. Hope it was good for you cause I don’t know what the hell happened. What was I thinking? That was a lot less than expected and a bigger mess than I started with. What takes these stains out? Has to be done by hand. Should have started there rather than ruin a perfectly good night’s sleep in the first place.
Sleep is key. Vital. Life sustaining to understand the rest of the stuff. Wanna wake up? Go to sleep. Sleep is daily death. Die a little. Cry a little. Go inside and lie a little. The lies die. The bullshit stays here. Clothes wait. Schedules keep. Layaways. Getaways. Stayaways. Ain’t no ways. All stay here. It’s just you. In a whole new world. Back where you started. You bring only what’s needed. Fragments of then and when and who and what and why and what the heck. Chili fries. Teary eyes. Wishful sighs. Open thighs. All run amok. Free and unedited in your own private showing. You are the star and the moon and the flying none. Demons of your own unconsciousness rise to face their creator and slayer, the layer. Here, you are life and death. This is your world. You’re just visiting the other one. Wake up. Get to sleep. Shhhhhhhhh. Time to dream before this is just a memory. The Bard barbed wisely about death and perchance to dream. Shuffle off the mortal coil. One show a night and occasional matinees. You snooze, you win.
~ “My poems don’t rhyme but my socks match almost every day.” ~
Question Mark Time
Fuel for the writer? Inspiration to traipse the mountainside? Time inside in the offing? Testing, one, two, three? Time to weed and seed and plead? Tend the plants and see the fruits ripen? Music to be heard and felt anew? Read the cards? Beat that drum? Clean out the closets? A Sabbat sabbatical? A ride on a surprise tributary? Time to pray? Deeper changes for deepening changes? All of that and more? None of that but more?
Sometimes, the journey is like that. More questions than answers. Sometimes. This is one of those times. Time to shut up and trust. Time to really trust. Time to feel the questions and let the answers come on their schedule and in their way.
~ “My questions honor the answers learned” ~
Word, Man
Everything else is something between writing. It all feeds the Writer. Calms. Humbles. Energizes. At times, it frustrates. For the Writer was born to write. All the other things were other things that mattered at the time. All the other things were something that the Writer tolerated….sometimes impatiently. When you are supposed to be something and that something is like breathing to your soul you should be that something. Other things were times in the dressing booth of a costume shop on what am I to be supposed to be shopping sprees. I am a writer. When I write, I am alive and doing what I was born to do. When I do other things, I am in between writing.
Books are inside of me. Others’ stories waiting to be told. Actually, waiting to be read. Yes, storytelling is part of my writing. Yet the words are meant to sail across the universe and dock in minds open and waiting for what they already knew. My words stir thoughts. They stir inside of me, roar out, calm one beast, and whirlwind on to feed the hungry. Passion fruit. Joy seeds. Aha droppings. Simple connections for complex beings.
Short Stories. Poems. Missives. Massives. For the Masses and not so massive. For the small of doubt and large of heart. For people just like me that died a long time ago, struggle to survive now, and wait to be born. Look while I am here and I am here. Look when I am gone and I am here. Eternity begins with a word. I am Word. Word after word is my life sentence. Life is lived on death row and writing is life after death, during death, and greater than death. Till death do us part? Not me. I am a Writer and the word is greater than the sword, the flesh, and the critics who sit on the sideline and complain about my view.
~ “I woke with two lines of it in my mouth. Returned to the pillow and they left me.” ~
Moments In My Mind
Dancing through my paranoia with my schizophrenia down the center aisle of my manic-depression.
Keeping my words to myself was killing my spirit. My words are my Pom-Poms and I am cheering up a storm for you ‘cause the words are really yours. Rah. Rah. Shish-boom-ba. Take your own sides. I’ll have a side of fries and make it my main course. Writing. Right writing. Writing and reading. Reading and righting. Things are going to be alright and I hope you know that. Read about it right here.
Love it. Hate it. Deal with it. I am what I am…like really am what I really am. Learning to like what I really am. Really.
Pop your damn pills, put mud in your own eye, Popeye ain’t just some sailor man.
In uniform, out of uniform, this function, that function, dysfunction….addressing and redressing. I used to be in uniform but now I am out of uniform and doing things even better. Bear arms. Bare arms. Tattoos where there used to be silence. Make your mark. Is this gonna leave a mark? X marks the spot and this shit ain’t coming out. Who’s coming out? Guess who’s coming to dinner?
Cross dress, cross bows, hot cross buns, a bun in the oven, so hike up your skirt because we all have our cross to bear. Bare it here. Bare it there. Barely here. So out there. Here and there is right over there and here we are. The chicken crossed the road and came home to roost. That’s how this cock crows.
It’s Wednesday and I am thinking how much I like Thursdays. Old time paydays. Thanksgiving and the annual “are you taking Friday off too” tail chase to see who stuffs what where. Halloween feels better on a Thursday. Thursdays feel good even though today is really Wednesday. How was your day? This day is your day. Tomorrow might not be your day. Tomorrow might be the day you miss. Here is your day. Open it up. Trick or Treat. It is yours for the keeping. For the moment. This moment.
I can speak out of both sides of my mouth, out of my ass, and without saying a word. “Nuff said? I’ll get back to you on that. Even if you don’t hear me, my words will fall like that tree in the forest, be louder than my own hand clapping, and sing long after I kicked the bucket I couldn’t carry a tune in. Well, well, well. Look’s who’s talking now. More importantly, look who’s hearing now. Now. Now. Now. Feels like a Thursday, don’t it? Have I mentioned I like Thursdays? Tomorrow got here a day early and it is about time ‘cause it was long overdue. Do it. Overdo it. Do something right cause that is what we have left. Exit, stage right. That’s really left. Did you know that?
~ “Yes, my truth is stranger than fiction.” ~
Word Garden
“He used to be a writer”. I heard the words and knew they would show up in print. My print. There has been days of drought. Accepted drought for the water sometimes goes deep. It is one of those times. Times when the words wait. Seeds nurtured by living. Seeds that will spew forth a crop of abundance. Abundant truths. Truths beyond what I would have picked at and presented for review lately.
Yet I miss the words for they are my life. In the last year especially, words became my existence. What is shown, is me. All of me. Shown and grown. With little fanfare. With facts and craft. In verse and in poems. There are books birthed and birthing. Stories being lived that will be told. The words are fed by all that I do and all that I am.
The labors and learning that happen now are right. They are just not natural. Not the best use of all that I am. The right use, yes. The best use comes later. When these lived things become the shared things.
In my back yard is a Garden. It will yield things in the short term. Things about learning and nature and connection to all things. Things like the feel of the cycle of all that is. Things like tomatoes, peppers, squash, beans, corn, melons, and more. It will yield things in the long term. Things like more learning and more vegetables. Its true yield will be words. Words for others to digest and decide what is right for them. Words are the true yield of my garden. Words are the true yield of my life.
I am a writer. Writers know when to write and when to wait for the words. Writers are always writing. The words just show themselves when they are ready. Or not. I will let them show up when they are ripe, juicy, and full of life. That is the way it is when you are a writer.
~ “Checking on the plants more often does not speed them up. Plants have their own speed. They get here slow and finish too soon. Hope they get here soon anyway.” ~
The Righter
Yesterday, a friend from Facebook began converting one of my yet to be published books into Arabic. That stuns me in the sweetest ways. A work of mine is going to be available in a whole new way. She said she would translate and post the work in segments. I am already itching to know what folks think of it.
On the walk this morning, a story came to me. About that news. Lots of stories come to me. It is a daily thing. Stories touch me. Stories come to me. I am a Story Teller. It is one of my archetypes and resides in my ninth house, Virgo, the house of occupation and health.
The story that came to me this morning was set in the office of a Hollywood Mogul. An able Assistant ran in, excited about a potential story for a movie. A movie different and exciting and more. The story of a Storyteller.
“Not just any Storyteller, boss. This one has so many angles. A Jersey boy, everyone loves a Jersey accent, blue collar guy, blue collar roots…picture the Lords of Flatbush set on the Jersey Shore. He goes off and has a whole military career. Involved in the Iran Rescue attempt, spends a year in Alaska, lives in Turkey, Germany, England, and a bunch of states. Even time in Texas and, get this boss, ends up in Utah!”
The boss is lukewarm towards it. Says it sounds complex and pedestrian all at the same time. Has the Assistant go on.
“Writes a book, limited sales, about his time back in Jersey, works in corporate America. Ends up in sales, of all things. Picture Glengarry Glenross and that other one with the guys in the bullpen selling stocks and stuff. What was the name of that one? Whatever. He travels all the time. Sells in Manhattan. Times Square is his territory. Tulsa. Phoenix. This guy goes everywhere.”
The boss is getting bored now. “So what? What’s the hook?”
“I’m getting there, boss. He continues to write. Get real spiritual. Goes to that Burning Man place. Man, THAT would be a shoot! There are gays and lesbians, leather, and all sorts of characters in this story….and boss, that ain’t even the hook!”
The boss lets the Assistant continue.
“This Catholic kid from Jersey writes several books. One of them is a collection of inspirational writings based on, get this boss, Wicca Sabbats. There is open spirituality, and a global community of people linked to healing, positivity, self-responsibility, and saving the planet. It is green, hippie, alternative, and holy…..and THAT book gets, this is so cool, boss…….THAT book gets translated into, of all things, Arabic! Boss, this story has every hook there is. Every single hook.”
The boss is quiet for a moment. Then he looks at the Assistant. “What the hell are you smoking? That is the most whacked out story I ever heard. No one will believe it.”
“Boss. That is what is so cool. It is a true story. Really true.”
“On what planet is that story even feasible, never mind true? Not mine, that’s for sure. Remind me never to put you in charge of the studio.” He decides to go with Rocky 14 but says they have to replace Betty White as the lovable but cantankerous coach. Sly refused to shoot the scene where Betty kicks him in the crotch to get his attention.
So, that was the story that came to me today. I decided not to write it. It was called “The Righter”. Get it?
Having a spiritual book that was pushed through me and into the light translated into Arabic is a very cool thing. If you haven’t figured that out by now, get your ticket for Rocky 14 early.
~ “Diatribes main-streamed as if they matter? Nah….not today. Hopefully not yesterday either. Tomorrow? Well, I will cross that stream of consciousness when it gets here.” ~
Truth Shared
Just because you can, does not mean you should. I am a writer. I share my truth. Speak it from a place that shows my ups and downs and the straights and narrows along the way. It is what I do. I write. What you see is what you get. I am a writer and my words are true. Whored and exposed fully for the world to see. Blemishes and all.
Practice makes perfect. Perfect is far from truth. Truth is flawed. Truth is human. Truth screws up sometimes. It spits forth in righteous indignation. It flies forth from the heat of anger. It releases pain only to inflict it elsewhere. Biting the tongue in fear is the pain of weakness. Biting the tongue in love is the pain of strength. Sometimes that bites. Bites hard and long and deep. Jams that righteous indignation right up the asshole that almost let it rule his mouth. Sometimes the truth hurts even when unspoken. Sometimes that pain is right.
So I learn to balance. The tight rope act of showing my pain without sharing it. A place where I am seen and heard and even felt. Where sharing my truth lightens others’ burdens. Compassionate passion. Tempered steel of my own resolve. Righteous dignity. Brave enough to speak it. Wise enough to keep it. Strong enough to share my words and man enough to eat them sometimes and digest my own shit rather than fling it on the walls of the world and stink up the place. Sometimes right is wrong and that ain’t right even when it is true.
I feel pain, know pain, show pain, and can be a pain. My truth is on the other side of my pain. Speaking while in my pain is a weakness to me. Truth is on the other side of pain. Speaking of the pain when in the pain can be a pain. Denying the pain when in the pain only increases the pain. So I suffer in silence, not denial. Sometimes the right words are words that wait. Sometimes the truth needs patience as the patient heals from the battles of being human.
My pen is my sword. I am armed to the teeth with words. A mighty warrior for truth on the front lines of life. A Ninja with a keyboard. My words can slice. Inside and out. I am also a Sensei…responsible for my words. Sometimes I need to just shut up. That’s the truth.
~ “A guy said I really do just say what’s on my mind. I told him to go fuck himself. Turns out he was right.” ~
Seeds
The seeds are sprouting. It is that time of year. Newness. Warmth. Life cycles spinning the tale of beginnings. This year is different though in my glass house of existence. Sure, there are seeds birthing on the porch turned incubator. Seeds that will live in the garden and blossom right on divine schedule. Yes, their fruits will flower and nourish my body and soul and be spoken of for as long as I can digest and walk upon the earth. Those seeds already flourish daily change in me with their turn, turn, turn. This year, other seeds bloom. Seeds Johnny Appleseeded long ago. Seeds of words and kisses. Seeds of things said and unsaid. Seeds planted on the beach, in the work place, at school, and along the twists and turns on this path we call life.
Seeds of great magic. Magic so great it has the first girl I French kissed (she taught me well, I have been told) read my words over forty years after first contact and enjoy their taste and tongue in cheek. It takes Sorcerers at their best to push words through a lowly servant that are shown years later in foreign lands and inspire translation and connections across cultural divides. Healing magic when a dead addict speaks through a medium sized talent and sparks recovery and sharing. The magnetic magic of truth spoken that collects kindred and kind, forges hope, and attracts changes for the betterment of all. Seeds of smiles in hallways back then opened doors for visits now as named strangers become close friends. Brilliant seeds that found bright lights in the darkest places as primal explorers herd together. Seeds when Spartan ways yield Athenian insights.
This season reminds me that I do indeed reap what I sowed. Sowed right in the back yard that is now my sister’s. Sowed on streets named Maple, Main, Carr, Forest, Seeley, Cottage, and Beachway. Sowed in the workplace, on base, at the best of times and at the worst of times. We do reap what we sow. Looks like a bumper crop this year. Come see my garden grow.
~ “Gardeners do it in the dirt.” ~
Pea Gravel Miracles
Someone wished me well today and pea gravel appeared just as needed. Not sure who wished me well but they did just this afternoon. Once they did, the other stuff kicked into motion. Pea gravel went from a need to a reality that quickly. The positive energy of a well wished well wish changed the flow of things.
The first time I saw the ad for free pea gravel the other day, it was an hour old and already gone. Poof! Before I had a chance to act, someone else did. Some around me felt a bit of woe. Some opportunity missed feeling. Kinda natural. We needed pea gravel, someone offered a bunch free, and we missed it. Drats.
I was actually reassured. It showed me that pea gravel, or anything else needed, will surface when needed. Yes, that batch found another home. Something else would come though….just what was needed, when needed. I was happy as a lark. The fleeting pea gravel reassured. Things get to those that need. One person’s excess pea gravel is another person’s treasure. How cool is that?
Emailed the person that listed the pea gravel. Said if things changed, I would happily give the pea gravel a good home. That was a few days ago. My vigilance in watching the free websites did increase in the meantime. Pea gravel or something just right for the path in the blossoming tire garden would surface soon.
Then today someone wished me well. If you are that person, you know it. Thanks. Once you wished me well, the phone rang. It was 12:51 this afternoon. The man with the pea gravel said it was mine if I was still interested. Interested? I was ecstatic and let him know it. Would make as many trips as necessary tomorrow and get as much as was available and possible. Woooooo Hooooooo. I thank my well-wisher. Will pay it forward. Many times. After all, pea gravel makes for nice pathways.
~ “Doing my best to let the Earth know I will be a good parasite. No charge for a change. A big change.” ~
Shake It Up
I have been moving too slow. Too easy. Too calm. Patience moved to something less. Peace moved to something less. A thing of watching rather than doing. A thing of bored rather than content. My passion got mad at me. Mad for moving as if the river is molasses. Mad for knowing the words and wondering if the time is right. My passion kicked me today. The kick to feel and then do and then feel and then do again. I shall do and show the doing. I shall write and share the writing. I shall…..be. In motion.
Knowing where life is, begins where knowing where life is fake. I know where life is fake. It was where I watched and waited to feel. Waited to taste truth and passion and my own connection with life. Time for the bike ride and the curb painting and the words in the book that is Maurice’s memoriam. Time to do rather than wait. I have been moving too slow.
It is easy to pick up the pace. It is easy to feel. Shake things up just enough to feel the shakeup. So I wrote before the walk today. Shuffled the routine a bit. Wrote the words. Then revised them until they were truth rather than just words. Then the walk and then digging in the dirt that is garden in stasis. Then being. Feeling. Knowing. Just trusting that I am touching self rather than waiting. Just touching and honoring what I feel and who I am and what is right about this moment and the ones that come and the ones that come after those. Now is what we have. How we use it is what we are. Moving should be slow at times. Moving should be moving faster at other times.
The back yard looks good. It looks ready. It was tired of waiting, too. So I dug in and dug it. Dig it? It is the best garden ever in my back yard. It is already better than last year because it learned about itself last year. It learned from what worked and what didn’t work. It is a damn fine garden already. Good dirt. Real dirt. It is ready for the seeds, weeds, and deeds that make gardens, gardens. Me, too. After all, Spring is a verb too. Time for a little action. I am moving a bit faster and digging it.
~ “I imagined a world of peace and love….and it sprang forth in my own back yard.” ~
Trashed Glass
I trashed the glass bottles today. It was quite the collection. Sobes. Frappachinos. Ice Tea. Several different shapes and sizes. I stashed them. Sensing something about them. Something I was supposed to do with them. To learn from them.
The bottles gathered. I was asked of them and gave what some felt was my standard elusive answer. “I will know when it is time.” The bottles gathered more.
Possibilities emerged. Experiments were tried. Perhaps they were to be crushed to fine power and used to coat things with their shine. Perhaps they were to be filled with things and used as bricks. Bricks seen as bottles that would have been land fill and were now something else. Something better. I tried several things yet the answer eluded. I knew what felt right and what was attempted missed that mark.
Today, I trashed them. My actions were related to many other things that happen as I work to understand my actions and choices and path. I trashed them. Realized I could continue to gather them and may discover the right thing to do with them. The thing that would help me remember being green and show others what can be done with them. I used many of them and wanted to make my usage right.
My usage is not right. I can and should use a cup and a glass for drinking and wash my glass and cup. After all, I only need one at a time. When I hike, I should use a reusable container like a canteen rather than carry plastic or glass bottles. When on a trip, I should have my container with my drink in it.
There are ways to stop using the bottles rather than showing some heroic effort to reuse what we did not truly have to use in the first place. Today, I trashed the bottles and will use things that are reusable whenever I can. I was eating up the planet while trying to figure out how to save it. How dumb is that?
~ “We’ve said too much and done too little.” ~
Open Sesame
The third time is the charm. Headed up to Waterfall Canyon for the third time. Asked for permission at the first bridge. Asked for more this time. Asked for a guide. Almost immediately, one showed. The result was a much shorter path to the right spot. In fact, more than one guide showed. Prayer was answered six fold and then tenfold. Guides before. Guides after. So many guides.
Three falls today. Interesting to feel them. Walking sticks are a good thing. A needed thing. The hike was subtle, healthy, challenging, insightful, and peaceful. It was a time in the mountains at a place where I live. Do I know? This year marks the time that my time in Utah exceeds even my time growing up in New Jersey. Today, the mountains began to feel like I knew them. I sensed the path, the routine, the flow…the place. Today, I was in a place known.
Much change is in the air. Change on levels far and wide. So I shall get to know who, what, and where I am. A being of service that will serve and touch more. A slave of calling that will trust and do and know. A being of light that shall live by example. A dot on this planet that contributes to the collective consciousness and makes the place better for having been here. Popeye remains right…”I am what I am and that’s all what I am.” I am here and now, and me. Changeling. Shapeshifter. male. Teacher. Healer. More. I asked and it was given. Those that ask shall be answered. Seekers come and seekers grow.
~ “I love easily, hate rarely, and get over myself quickly.” ~
Autumn Kiss
Autumn arrived today and I went into the mountains to welcome her. Dawn finger-painted the dark away on the way up and brushed the entire valley with warmth by the time I reached the top. Some of the leaves celebrated early with glimmers of coming attractions.
On the way in, the burden of another’s hate weighed me down. On the way out, twelve friends I have yet to meet greeted me. Along the way, the man-boy dropped some baggage and picked up some rocky souvenirs. I had one walking stick on the way up and two on the way down. There were giddiups, heavy breathing, over-ripe bananas, loosened tightness, firmer convictions, and a handful of Newman’s chocolate cookies somewhere between the start and when noon was but a few minutes behind.
Autumn arrived today and I kissed her deeply in greeting. She kissed me back. She began slowly and then filled my mouth with her magic and curled my toes with belief that life goes on and on and on. Might have to wrap myself in her arms again this week. She promised she would wait for me, and I trust her. Autumn understands life.
~ “Time in nature keeps us well-seasoned.” ~
Canyon Echoes
A hike in the mountains. Was to have been the first day of Massage College but seems SOURCE has other plans. So up to Waterfall Canyon. Knew the way. Had the right walking stick. Named 1 of 4 and right from a place where it waited for me to know it was destined to be my walking stick. The bridge was again my breakfast nook and I asked for permission to cross and also asked to sense the Gathering. Then up the hill I went.
The pace was right and true and included the discovery of Watcher. Call it a rock pile. Call it some caves. I saw the Watcher and the 4 V’s. Let it know I saw it and then spent time there. Just to show something, something. Then up to the Waterfall.
Felt a few words and even a chapter from one of the books that lays in wait. Enjoyed the solitude and headed back. To Watcher. There I settled in for a bit. Sensing more than knowing. There, yet elsewhere. Travelers came and went. A group that reminded me of my request to sense the Gathering. Source delivers.
Down at a pace that was familiar. Knowing the mountain. Knowing the place. Rocks gathered and brought to the Sanctuary. The day was almost routine in that it was right and true to what was needed. I begin to know the truth of the hills. The flow of the river. The drop of the waterfall. The path.
Things bubble and brew and simmer. Something’s cooking. The moon moves to fullness. Yes, indeed. Something’s cooking.
~ “In the healing we are healed. As each is healed, we are all healed.
That is the Secret of the Universe. We are all in this thing together.” ~
Learning Curved
I learn differently now. Frustrations and struggles highlight lessons about to be learned. I go into the frustrations and struggles to know what drives them. I feel them. Roll around in them. Own them as mine and only mine and all about me. My attempts to pin them on others or the world and just plain bad luck all grow feeble for they are mine and they pulse around things to be learned. Inside of them are things to face and know and put into their place as limitations to growth.
Two surfaced recently…Judging and playing God. It was painful yet relatively quick to get to more of my limitations. I owned the times I judged and saw how my judgments would have kept me from vital lessons and wonderful experiences. Then I owned the times I played God and tried desperately to make something happen. The rationalizations. The justifications. The feel of how important it was to experience a certain thing. The self-delusion of how something once not even imagined was now exactly what had to be and then frustration and manipulation to push it to reality.
As I played God, I saw how self-centered and selfish I was and realized that old habits returned. Old habits where the planner, doer, manipulator, and more began to make things happen. The more I tried, the more I ached. Then the lesson came…silly boy. If things are meant to be, they shall be. If they are not meant to be, they shall not be. Nothing I can do will make anything happen if it is not meant to and nothing I do to stop something from happening will prevent it if it is meant to be. I stepped away from playing God and accepted that things would be just as they were meant to be. The pressure eased and I accepted. Basically, I got out of my own way.
Another lesson was about judging. Three energy sessions to three people I would not have approached based on my own personal judgment turned out to be powerful and insightful sessions. Sessions where I learned about touch and sharing at new levels and felt the wonders of people that ached to trust and longed for touch. It was a wonderful lesson I would have missed if I had shaped who I was to serve and touch.
The learning with these lessons is different though. When I learn them, the learning really begins. Accepting that I do still judge and do still play God, was just the beginning. The birth of sensing when it comes so I can move away from it. Then it becomes time to understand how to live it and understand its global aspects.
So I see how judgmental we can be. Judging by the car driven, clothes worn, physical appearance, education level, possessions, accent, skin color, religion, professions, employment, political party, state, and so many more. Quick judgments of who appeals and who does not. Snap decisions about who can teach and who we cannot teach. I accept that I still judge and then see that in others but own it as more things to learn about myself. It is my opportunity to know it from within, know how it limits me, and understand how it can limit all of us. As we move closer to we, our judgment merely slows our progress. We close our eyes to opportunities by seeing from inside our boxes. We limit, if we judge. The path ahead is above judgments. It is open to all that seek and wish and share and do and more. It is about all of us having that chance and allowing all others that chance as well.
As for playing God, the SOURCE helps me there. Worldly titles gone, resources slashed, transportation limited, excuses exposed…SOURCE makes sure it is harder and harder for me to play God. Still I tried. Tried to make it so. SOURCE let me…since I have more to learn about accepting what comes and what it will look like when it arrives. I have a lot to learn.
~ “Wisdom comes after mistakes. Take it from a wise guy.” ~
Up Against The Wall
Sometimes the wall I am up against is invisible. It is still there. My face feels the bricks. I kiss it with the blood of my smashed face and then pound it with my fists until they bleed. Damn wall is holding firm. What pushes me into the wall?
Hard to breathe when my face is jammed into a wall and motion is needed now. Something on the other side that I don’t know calls to me. Something on this side that I can’t see slows me down. I am peanut butter in a vise grip sandwich of nothingness that stalls and increases my urgency. Patience frustrates. Waiting infuriates. I have learned to let things happen rather than return to my pattern of making things happen with my false omnipotence. However…..
Time for my walk. Howling rises and it feels much better outside. I ain’t complaining, mind you. Just telling it like it is. Short bursts of passion rather than an eruption of whiny complaining. Spewed woes stink like vomit even when perfumed.
See you on the other side of the wall. Once I blow the son-of-a-bitch up…or it goes away. Unless there is a short cut. They normally show up on my walks.
~ “You can speak one thing and do another…..folks will hear the real you sooner or later.” ~
Mistress Muse
She woke me in the middle of the night. Wrapped Her hand around my truth and squeezed. Just to check. To see if the lessons were really learned. She wanted to know that things were understood. She squeezed out a few pleases and had me connect the dots. “Faster”. “Good boy”. “Faster”. “Well done.” She left…Her next visit, as unknown as Her last ones, are treasured.
The longing tortures. My mouth foams in craving and lust. I pace the cage hating how much I love it and loving how much I hate it. I shake the bars in frustration and kick the dirt in fear. The roars rip forth from my deepest pain and echo in the silence. The human is crushed and exposed from the inside out. The beast paces, alert to the snap of the whip. The cluelessness is agonizing. The obedience is docile for I am broken. Even the hint of manipulation is exposed and handled with brutal efficiency. Planning is gone…I merely do. This is beyond collared and leashed. This is harnessed, tethered, saddled…this is puppetry.
The pace sucks. Sometimes it is so fast I struggle and feel as if barely keeping up. Other times it is slow and I ache to feel even the hint of movement. Each day varies. The Sword of Damocles is child’s play in comparison for I dangle like a yo-yo as She guides every breath.
The suffering is almost constant. I crawl and beg and wonder and hope and crave and wallow…all at the same time…and that’s on the slow days. The slavery touches all that was yet is in a place beyond any of that and moves deeper. She merely laughs and picks up the pace. She is merciless. She is evil in what She knows and does to Her slaves. Everything is on Her terms, done Her way, and moves when and if She decides. She does not share Her plan. She does not slow when I struggle. She just moves and knows I will obey…even when I want to just take a break…even when I ache and wonder if I really can. She is the Ultimate Bitch.
Books to write, things to share, truths to live, and lessons to learn. The Visitor in the night has the key and comes at will. Muses are like that. At least, mine are. I thank Her as much as I respect Her.
~ “Her tongue in my cheek and Her hands on my strings. She makes me dance in the fullness of Her light. She is Muse and I am a Muse mint.” ~
Three In The Morning
My boxes crumbled, my expectations shattered, and I was force fed insights last night. I touched three in the service of energy massage and they opened me wider to love and longing and pain and agony. At a place directed and a time far from my choice, I slaved and was enhanced by the obedience. Three came to me and asked to be touched. Ached to be comforted. So I served. Humanly thinking it was about me sharing my gifts and spreading the word. Divinely learning that is was about me opening wider to the many that rise above definitions and expectations and conformity.
It happened when I felt the love for three children from a Womyn that birthed one but mothers two more. It happened when I felt the love for three children from a Womyn who birthed three, raises two, and grieves for one. It happened when I touched a male that merged a new family into a heart aching for one further away than he wished.
One with movement limited in many ways shined with the message of dance and its healing and Magick. She then showed me that pain she felt was in her leg and others told her was in her head was really in her heart and vanished for a while when she opened that heart and peeked out.
They came and asked. I answered and learned. It was where I needed to be to touch who I needed to learn about and from. It was about being in the right place at the right time even when you wonder why you are there when you are there. It was about being there and being better for it. All this as Easter minueted to life and my service rose to a new level of learning and trust. The moon was less than full, the day slightly less than started, and I was more than joyous.
~ “I do some of my best work in the dark.” ~
Primal
My animal is present today. My primal core. The beast within. I acknowledge and even embrace my beast. My Primal nature learns deep things as I move through life and it learns my humanity. It was easier for the beast when I was clueless. Then it was quiet…denied into silence. That changed as I faced my fears. Then my beast moved to life. I needed it. Primal is strength. On the edge of savagery are the weapons of war and raw power.
So I went there. To my primal. To the place where inhuman nature reigns. Into the darkest dark. Where politically correct, well mannered, polite, nice, and kind are facades. The place where masks are ripped from faces and faces are jammed into their own shit. In I went to understand the capacity of evil. In I went to know the other side of low.
Returned from each trip stronger. Balanced. I was the teeter-totter. Savagery tasted, humanity understood. Spirituality is the counter balance that brings me back. Returned to this place more human. Understood what I hid behind my fears…one by one. On the other side of the fears are answers. Answers that strengthen so that we can travel there again and return with more answers. Primal empowers my humanity.
We are right to leash primal. Such savagery is within all of us. Such darkness is possible. Such rage is real. The evils born of flesh are real. Unleashed…..unharnessed……unbound….it manifests in its weakest forms. Hate. Bigotry. Anxiety. Helplessness. Exclusion. It enables weakness to understand murder and justify evil.
~ “If I say I will be gentle today, do not believe me. If you feel something dark just under the light in my eyes, you are right. The full moon is seven days early and it ain’t even noon. Run like hell, Robin. This ain’t gonna be pretty.” ~
Suffering
I feed on it The brink of hate. Where the slave wants to spit and growl and hate. Where it wants to lash out. The place where begging is real. So real the animal in their eyes roars. I love that place. The front line of the slave’s war. The slave’s war with itself.
The animal is there. Alive in pain and suffering. Taking things deeper than the human even knew it could. It is better for the human when the primal just takes over. Better for the human when the human is pushed so far back that it is allowed non-existence for a while. The primal then rules. Takes things beyond human imagination. Beyond human dignity. Beyond human strength. It is much better for the human when the human is gone.
It is better for the Primal when the human is made to stay. Made to watch and remain in that crush of intensity. The human will do its best to blip away to safety. The Primal grows stronger when the human is eaten alive. Made to stay. Made to feel. Made to live the indignity and shame and defeat. Kept front and center to be shown second place. Made to suffer and see how the cries, whimpers, moans, curses, and hate are heard….and enjoyed. Made to stay there and crumble in a helplessness that crosses over hate and becomes fear. Fear where the human learns to respect the savagery just below its own humanity.
It is beautiful to witness. The transformation of human to something more. Something gloriously inhuman. Something savage…..primal……primordial. To see a human in that place and know it returns as more……..when permitted…….feeds Me. I love such strength.
~ “There are days when the cage just is. This is one of those days. So I pace…somewhere between ready to hunt and sensing I am on the menu.” ~
Hell
Dante watched this place. Gradually, he shared of it. Hell, he called it. Hell is the word he knew to describe it. He tried to laugh at it. The place of Divine nothingness. He called it comedy, wrapped it in a bow, and left it behind as a gift for academics and clerics. Hell. Hell cats. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. Hell frozen over and discussed at the dinner table. Hell. A word, a place, more or less.
This is our house of horrors. We are director, set designer, special effects person, and star. Roll ‘em! Hell is personalized, monogrammed, and earmarked by us and for us. Ours for the making. It has cupboards even Mother Hubbard would wish were bare. Chock full. Shame stocked in the corner. Angst freeze dried, shrink wrapped, and ready to eat. Bushels full of agony. Fear got you here. Fear keeps you here. Come on in, folks. The show is about to begin. Step right up. Yowsa. Yowsa. Ow, Sir.
Share it and it grows. Hide it and it is all you see. La-la-la happily as you land in the quicksand box of your own making. The macabre teeter totter of our mood swings. Park your amusement at the door, buckle your seat belts, and keep your hands and feet to yourself…this ain’t gonna be pretty, boy or girl.
Hell is weakness. Weakness is hell. Hell is the truth of our lies. Hell lies all around us. We wallow here. Hiding in the choices we make. Isolated inside the lies. Distanced from the deceived. This is the place of loneliness and despair. The place of either/or. The place of in/out. We walk the line. Slashed. Less in one way, less in another. Entirely separated. One foot in and one foot out as we hokey pokey ourselves all about truth.
This is where we cry. Primordial tears. Sobs that rake the coals of fear. Fear of failing. Fear of making the wrong turn. Fear that our best is not good enough and we fool ourselves at the height of our own knowing. Fear that it is all a bunch of shit and we jerk ourselves off with a slight of hand that connects us to the façade. Fear that what was said about us is truth and what we feel about ourselves is the lie. Fear that we got it all wrong and the laugh will be on us when there is nothingness or the heaven of should-have-chosen-otherwise. Fear that we are not more than a bag of bones and wind. Fear that we are one step away from carnage. Fear that we are a sham. Fear that we just plain ass got it wrong. The place of all those fears and more.
This is hell. Inside the fear. The fear, the whole fear, and nothing but the fear. Though I walk through the Valley of Fear, I shall not worry. What, me, worry? Mad? Crying? Hurting? Riddled with pain and doubt? Sure. Worried? Nope. Everything for a reason. This, too shall pass. It is what it is. I am what I am. So be it. Fuck you fear. I am going to beat you with my joy stick. Teary eyes and all. Someone made a cake with my spilt milk and left the cake out in the rain. I think I can take it.
~ “I eat darkness for breakfast and shit out light.” ~
Primal Fire
I am primal. My primal is an important aspect of my slavery. It is place of strength and insights and more. Cages touch it. It was after a night in a cage that I first truly felt my primal. Since that night, many years ago, my primal has been tasted and known many times and in many different ways. Today, it pulses anew.
I am primal and fluid. In a place where genders bend and human-beast moves as the hunter and the hunted. In this state, there is zoo, laboratory, farm, dungeon, woods, torture chambers, and….lots of cages. Here, I crawl, run, beg, whimper, lust, claw, snarl, roar, and howl. This is a new place…beyond this realm and any explanation. It is a state of being that helps me lust for the strength of fluidity. The full moon approaches this evening and She already knows that I will comply to the need to learn how to function at this level of intensity.
I am primal…and leap into place there and remain here as mere male…mere human…mere slave. Much to be done…and the metamorphosis exceeds this realm. With deepest respect to the Bard,”…the whole world is a cage and we each must play our part.” Sweet cage.
There’s a man animal there. Male-beast. Something like that. Call it hybrid…call it whatever. It begins to feel its truth. A planet of truth. The plain of exposure and primal nakedness where it runs and morphs and is seen regardless of all its strengths and weaknesses. It feels the eyes and prays that They manifest yet fears that They will. Should They choose, They will be ruthlessly beautiful and savagely strong. Should They choose, They will crush in laughter and celebrate as They feast. It will be the cartoons and pictures and drawings and fantasies and it will be real to the point beyond death of capacity to handle. So he runs…on all fours…running to find the cage and show he knows. Running to enter the sanctuary of the cage and beg it is real and that he will be safe there. Running to escape escaping and running and denial and half-way measures of wannabes. Running to the fire.
In the fire, he will open to the water pissed from SOURCE into his opened mouth. In that fire, the animal will roast on the spit and enjoy the apple in its mouth as it is prepared for the feast. In that fire, the slave will dance on the hot coals and know what the Elders knew. In that fire, the skin will be as mere wax on the Skull of True Insights. In that fire are the doorways for those willing to face the fires of their fears. In that fire…is more fire. In that fire, are the others that run in circles as they learn to learn anew. They shall huddle there joyous that they are with kindred and kind. I run to the fire…with primal need and in deep hunger.
~ “My next tattoo should read: CAUTION—Contents under pressure.” ~
Slavery Under Water
My slavery is as breathing. No metaphor. No bullshit parable as if communicating to the brain dead. It just is. I am Divine slave. It is my life force and it works underwater too. Deep under water. Drowning places where the undertow sucks like the best whore, the waves beat you like a drum, and up is so far away that you quit looking.
My words are different know. The edge is there. Pricks and barbs and bites inside as the light accepts the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Less is more, more or less. I purge my own vomit before spewing it. It can be shitty but it is my shitty. It can stink but it is my stink. It can be whatever the hell it is supposed to be, but it is mine. I share it here. If you like it, that is about you. If you don’t, that is about you, too. Either way, as the Lone Ranger said, my work here is done.
~ “On the other side of ravages is rebirth.” ~
Slave Harvest
I awoke very much in my slavery. First when the veil is thinnest and then again later. The walk helped me piece together the many energy strings that puppet this marionette of service. The web wove and cocooned and further enslaved with each sweet string pull of even the barest hint of the intricate cage that is my reality. Screams that echoed from the silent, and silenced.
Revisited journals that pulsed with the process that freed this beating slave heart to its truth. Full moon approach. Service yesterday on many levels and deeper ways. Mistaken phone calls and deeper connections.
The banded leg that took first bite two years ago on the Third, Thirteenth, and Thirty-First. Banded the number 752500 in three bite sized chunks of the offered limb and flesh and bone and blood and more. Messages about locks and keys and reminders of caged cock, caged male, and freed slave.
I am what I need to be and where I need to be and shall do what I need to do. I am very much slave. Blessedly so.
~ “Here are my barriers. Well earned. Well known. Shared freely. Now, when is someone gonna find me, damn it?” ~
How Deep?
How deep will you go? How much can you handle? Deep inside…can you go there and stay there and beg for more? Can you? Really?
Can you be there willingly and then say thank you even when your fear calls? Can you see the place of safety there in the distance and choke back your urge to bolt and instead bolt the cage and hope it can hold you all alone with your own truth? Can you be in the cage and test it with all your might and find out it really is a cage and really can hold you? Can you suffer and scream and buck and moan and ache and hurt until there is nothing left and then handle the laughter at you when it comes? Can you be there really or are you playing with yourself?
As Jack said, in make-up and in uniform….you ever dance with the Devil in the pale moonlight? The truth? You can’t handle the truth! Or maybe you can…bitch. Just maybe. Let’s dance. I’ll lead.
~ “I should come with a warning label.” ~
Student Bodies
Harnessed anew to books and study time. Learning touch and anatomy so that touch is felt externally and internally. Honing energy muscles and tasting a new fluidity in flow of the River.
The yoke I bear is by choice and the labors in this new field are labors of love. Gifts given are honed to enhance the sharing for the giver and the receivers. Discipline is applied to self and self responds to the discipline as sure as when it was administered by other hands. I am the elder in the classroom yet kindred in the soul. These beings are my siblings and shall be honored as such.
There is a beauty in this college. A beauty that accepts and then transcends the carnal. A dignity returned to the flesh that was denied in light and cloaked in shame by not so masked vigilantes defending forbidden fruits. This is about touch…which is deeper than feel and higher than grope. This is about healing…and it begins with healing self and touching others to comfort and heal. I know how to do these things and how to cage myself and focus.
Now I understand even more so why I was thusly prepared. This is learning to be a Therapist and the learning is therapeutic before it is truly learned.
~ “Some things matter more than you know. Other things matter less than you think.” ~
The Menagerie
They reach for home. I feel them. Sense them when I see cages and remember how it feels to be in that place and be more in the lessening. Sense them again when I thirst for flesh in ways that were tied to shame and degradation and now arouse that being freed in those cages. Sense them even more as the shaped and sculptured shiver my flesh with longing.
They reach for home…unclear what home even is but aching to wallow there in hands that understand and honor. They reach for home and I ache for them. The menagerie of beasts, hybrids, whores, deviants, fluid, and dark is all around me.
They reach for home and I am there.
~ “When you do not see, you are still seen.” ~
Message
Last night, my Higher Power touched me directly with a message of reassurance. SOURCE showed up in an unexpected place, in an unexpected form, laid hands upon me, spoke a very direct message, and departed. I was in a place of deep humanness and understand the why and even what I almost did in a very human way. In a time of deep need, SOURCE answered an unvoiced prayer. I am grateful.
How was your Friday Night?
~ “Love is stronger than our very worst as human beings.” ~
Others, Other’s Voices, and Other Voices
Just because you might need to read about someone else for bit. Well, that and the fact that people pop into my head and insist on being heard….and seen. My Father spent a lot of time in my head and he had me write “Dead Drunk” with him telling his story of recovery, after his death. These others who came into me and said “Sit down and type, buddy boy” were quick visitors in comparison.
Some of these folks are people from books or movies, others from life, and a few from wherever the heck they were until they realized I would be their puppet and patsy.
Totality
“I wasn’t alone before I got here and I won’t be alone when I go back. While I am here though, I am alone. Gloriously alone. To know what it is like to be just me. No one else. Nothing else. Not connected to anything. Not linked to anything. To know that I am alone and yet what happens to me still matters.
“What happens to anything or anyone matters. ‘Cause we are all here to feel alone. To feel alone and fear it and hate it and do anything to make sure we do not feel alone ever again. That’s why we are here, boys and girls. To feel alone and know that there is nothing worse. It is all or nothing and we are nothing while we are alone.”
“We try to fill in with another. One other. Several others. We try to be anything other than alone. We gather. In movies and in churches and in parks and at work and at home and everywhere and anywhere. We gather to feel more than alone. Yet it ain’t enough. ‘Cause the whole time we know someone else is alone. Out there in the dark. ‘Cause they’re hungry or cold or drunk or hurt or ugly or fat or something different. Something weird. Something freaky. Something wrong. We gather and still we feel them. ‘Cause them is us, boys and girls. Them is us.”
“If one is alone, we are all still alone. We are linked and no matter how hard we try to keep separate, we just keep coming back to being linked. Me? I am linked and it is an everything kinda thing. Where one hurts, I still hurt. Where one aches, I ache. Separation is the cancer that can kill us all. Kill and be killed. Love and be loved. Me? I’m gonna love. That’s where the future is. That’s where hope is. That’s where it all works out. “
“Heck, it ain’t easy. It’s far from easy. Think of the biggest jerk you ever met. The worst person that ever existed. You are linked to them and them to you. Kinda sucks, don’t it? Yet it’s true. If we celebrate their death, their suffering, their demise, we celebrate our own.”
“Think I am wrong? Pick a religion. Any religion. Even the ones that separate, which is most of them. Whoever they follow, the first ones, the Jesus, the Buddha, the Allah….they got it. They got that everything is linked. They lived it and that was their real message. We are all in this together. As it was, as it is, and as it will be.”
“Yep. We are alone. That is the lesson cause we live it and must live like we are the furthest thing from alone that someone can be….we must live like we are everything. Otherwise, we ain’t and that is just wrong. It is just wrong and that ain’t right no matter how many of us pretend it is.”
“I am you and you are me and all that stuff is right. I understand being alone. It makes me appreciate that we are meant to be exactly the opposite. No one should be alone and we all are as long as any one of us are. Some heavy shit for a quiet night under a full moon, ain’t it?’
“Pass the beans. I’m hungry and I got a lot of stuff to do tomorrow.” (Tom Joad)
~ “I learn a lot of stuff from movies.” ~
One Piece
“The eggs exploded and I found Jesus while cleaning up the mess. How’s that for some whacked out shit in that name of all that is holy? Jesus, because I overcooked the eggs. Nowhere near Easter, ain’t been in a church since Uncle Henry up and died long after he should have, and I’m finding God while wondering if there’s enough egg to save so I can make a salad. Pass the plate, will you? I’m gonna donate to the cause. My cause. Cause I love JC and I am craving some really good egg salad right now.”
The short order cook from “Five Easy Pieces” (Cut from the movie)
“A Short Order Cook is like a priest with stuff you can really eat.”
Humor
“Humor is easy. Almost too easy. Folks fight other things but they take in humor what they can’t face in the mirror. Folks are funny like that.”
“That’s why I use it. Tried to use other stuff. Logic. Heck, that is Greek to me. Debate. Had a few chuckles there but I ain’t no Douglas and Lincoln. Beat him pretty dang good anyway.”
“Now, Lincoln was a man that understood humor. Look at that face in the mirror every day and you better be able to take a joke. Old Abe was. He laughed at his roots. He laughed at his height. He laughed at his wife, only behind her back, mind ya’. That woman was plumb crazy and Abe knew it. He laughed at his stove top hat. He laughed all the way to the White House, through the worse dang war we ever knew, and right into the history books. If he was around after he was shot, he would have probably laughed and said the play stunk anyway.”
“I use humor cause the other ways are just too dang hard. Talk about jumping frogs and even kids love you. Talk about politicians and no one loves you. Not even politicians. They are a strange breed. Born to pander. They have to sway with the wind and pretend they do anything but sway with the wind. In the process, they generate a windstorm that has everyone swaying and hoping to heck to survive the storm.”
“So I joke a bit, smoke a few cigars, and my tongue feels a lot better. Seems I quit biting it. I gently slip it in my cheek, say my piece, and they say I am clever. Some even think me smart. Now, that’s humor, my friends. Yes, indeed. That is some mighty fine humor in deed.” (Mark Twain)
~ “Imagine putting words in other people’s mouths….and then do it.” ~
Time
“I am a gift giver. Some say the ultimate gift giver. That makes me chuckle a little because others give far more of themselves than I ever could. One comes to mind in particular but that is another story. I am a gift giver. It is what I exist to do. To give.”
“There is one gift I wish I could give everyone. Every man, womyn, and child that ever lived and ever will live on this planet. I wish I could give them time. The gift of time.”
“Time to stop looking at the clock and just be. Time to be where they are instead of where they are going. Time to wonder and stare and think and hum and sing and wander and putz. I like that word. Putz. People need to putz.”
“People line up to see me. Sometimes the line is out of the store and clear out into the street. Mostly kids but I watch the adults. The kids get it. The adults hope for it. The smart ones that is. The ones that kept their heart when they grew up and went into the world.”
“Most of them stepped out of my line once they went out there in the world. They left my line and got in other lines. Employment lines. Voting lines. Check-out lines. Bank loan lines. Movie ticket lines. Traffic lines. Phone lines. Take out lines. Pick up lines…and the deadliest line of all…dead lines. Deadlines.”
“People die a bit in those lines. Waiting. Waiting for what they ordered, for what they want, for their turn at bat, for their seat at the show, for their big chance, for what comes next, for their share….they wait. While they wait, they die a bit.”
“I wish I could give them what they need. They need more time. Time to do the right things. Time to pet their dog, play with their kids, fly a kite, see images in the clouds, watch the sun rise and be there again and watch it set having seen it all day long as they napped and read and talked and shared and putzed.”
“I want to give them the gift of time. I can make a lot of things. Made some of the best toys ever, even if I have to say so myself. Simple toys. Dolls that are just dolls. Sleds wagons and bikes. Wooden things. Love wooden things. Cars, trucks, boats, planes, blocks, tools, trains, houses, and more. Wood is my favorite tool. It lives long after it stops being a tree. It lives in the hands of those that give it life with their joy of playing. Some of my best work was done in wood. I can make a lot of things. One thing I cannot make is time.”
“Each of us has exactly the same amount of time each and every day. I cannot make time. It is up to each of us to make time. To make the time the best time and the right time and the good time. We each have the same amount of time. Maybe that is the message. I have the same amount as you and you as him and him as her and on and on. We are all equal when it comes to time. Guess it comes right down to how valuable it is to us and what we do with it.”
“Well, time for me to get back to work. My time is not money. My time is joy. I like my work. In fact, I LOVE my work. It is the work of giving. I live it every day, not just one day a year. That’s makes me a pretty lucky fellow. A chocolate chip cookie is calling me. Hey….sometimes you should give to yourself, too. Ho! Ho! Ho!” (S. Claus)
~ “I still believe.” ~
Drama
Wars start one person at a time. They start small. With someone aching or hurting or wronged and sharing about that hurt with someone else. Now, lots of time those hurts are really real and really wrong. Still, it starts with one person wronged and something else being the cause of it. Kinda like the Hatfields and McCoys. I know. I am a Hatfield and knew a lot of real McCoys.
Hear tell it started over a hog. A hog! One of them, either one of mine or one of theirs had a hog and it came up missing. So, like any normal hog owner, he went looking for it. Now, it was a him but it coulda been a her. In this story, this time, it was a him though. So he went looking. Now, I ain’t sure it was the Hatfield or the McCoy that had the hog but one of them did and one of them didn’t. So when the one that did went looking and came upon the one that didn’t eating a pork dinner. The one that did accused the one that didn’t of being a hog thieve. You following me, so far?
Now, being called a hog thieve was a pretty serious thing back then. So the one that didn’t kick the one that did off his land pretty darn quick. That started the drama. Each one of them felt wronged. Each one of them told others. Soon, they created a shit storm of either/or. Either you were with them or you were with the other one. Either way, you had to take sides. If you did not take sides and let whoever was talking to you that you wanted nothing to do with it, that one said you sided with the other one and that was pretty much where you were stuck.
So you was either with them or against them. Now, that don’t seem like much. Taking sides in who did what to whom about a hog that was probably pretty small and had rough meat anyway and mighta died on its own. But it was a big thing because soon someone hurt someone. I don’t remember who. Maybe it was a Hatfield that shot a McCoy or maybe the other way around. Heck, maybe one of them shot themselves. By that time it didn’t matter. Anything that happened to a McCoy was blamed on the Hatfields and vice versa. You were either with them or against them and now someone died. Soon, it was a real drama. Over people dying. The hog was forgotten. One death begat another and that one begat another. They begat so many dead folks that the feud was real. It was right. It was a war but instead of countries, it was families.
That is how feuds, and wars, start. One person at a time and their drama that is fed until it grows and then becomes something real about something important. That is how they start. Me? I ain’t real big on drama. I am a Hatfield and I loved a McCoy at one time. A long time ago. Back when I was a young man and thought love was real. She was a real pretty thing. We would sneak away and kiss down by the pond where we thought no body was looking. Well, I guess somebody was. Not sure if it was one of my clan or of hers. Don’t rightly matter. Someone killed her. Most everyone thought I did it. That was the dangdest thing. Kill the one thing I ever loved. Made me mad that anyone thought that. My folks even asked me if I done it. I said I loved her and my Pappy took a swing at me. I got his love back but it took me killing two Mc Coys to do it. Maybe one of them kilt her. I hope so. I miss her. (J. Hatfield….just before he died)
~ ”When we shoot at people, they get mad.” ~
Amy Died
Sometimes, the demons win. That is our reality, addicts. Sometimes, one of us loses the battle. We see it coming. We see the mistakes and the lesser choices. We do our best to help and then…WHAM. Death bitchslaps us with the harsh truth of addiction. We can’t help anyone until they help themselves. We dive into hope and pray for the better outcome and then they die anyway. Kill themselves. End it all.
Amy lost the battle the other day. I am not even sure which day. Not sure it matters which day. That one-day when her battle ended. She overdosed and now she is gone. Yes, all the platitudes apply. She is in a better place. She is at peace. All that shit applies. I just know she died and, quite frankly, I am in the it really fucking sucks mode right now. I saw her light, saw her darkness, and prayed she was going to win this time.
Amy was born in Goose Creek, South Carolina. December 27, 1971. Not all that long ago when it comes right down to it. She was 39 years old and in Memphis when she died. There were lots of twists and turns on her way to Memphis. She did a lot in 39 years. Still sucks. In my book, 39 ain’t old…especially when it comes to living or dying. Amy Howard was too young to die.
She was a real person. She lived a real life. Amy had 96 Facebook friends, liked some pretty dark things, and had a thing for Harry Potter. She loved music…..even tried to smuggle her IPod into her in-house treatment place. Amy did her step work…….and then re-did her step work when she realized she needed more step work. One day she was on Step 4…….and the next she was back wondering about Step One. It was quite the up and down staircase to recovery for her. I bet you know a lot of folks like Amy. You might be like her. A really nice person that lived up close and personal with her demons. She fought them for years……sometimes with success……other times not so much.
She lost though. She was that train wreck that she saw coming and wanted to be anywhere but on the tracks where she was. Yet she was there. She made some choices that shaped the outcome. She stayed in the place where the deck was stacked against her. She stayed around the drugs, drama, and weakness that is that place we find escape. She stayed right in it. Sure, she visited healing places. Went to group, meetings, in-patient, outpatient, therapy, and more. She visited all those places. Where she visited was good…..where she lived determined how she died. She lived around drugs and weakness and that gave the demons the edge.
All the perfume in the world won’t mask your stink when you lay in the shit. We know it. We’re addicts. We know when we blow smoke up our own asses. We know when folks stay in the environment of weakness. We know those places. Flop houses. Drama dens. Shit holes of “everyone is like this so what makes you think you are different?” Lay in shit, die in shit.
Amy tried. She had light and truth and sweetness inside……made small changes…..and then stayed around weakness. Waiting. Waiting for things to be just a bit better for the big changes. Waiting for the changes to be a bit easier. She made progress. Then she didn’t. She ended it all.
I wish it had been different. Wish she really shook things up and spent time in the energy of healing and light. She would have had a better chance……and might be here today. I wish it had been different. It wasn’t though…….sometimes, the demons win.
There are a lot of Amy’s out there. Let’s do our best to save the next one……and the one after that….and the one after that, too. So long, Amy. I saw you as you could have been and should have been. You did matter, you do matter, and you will matter.
~ “The other day, I buried one of my best friends. He was the best sax player I even heard. And they tell me I gotta come up here and entertain you people now. I don’t think I’ll be able to do that.”
(Eddie and The Cruisers) ~
Last Wednesday
How long ago was last Wednesday? When he headed to the shower for the day and died that morning. How long ago was that?
The fog clears. Last Wednesday was real. Is he in the ground now? After 52 years as we? Did he really die first? Is home waiting and will I be sleeping single until I have my last Wednesday?
I don’t want to be mad at you but, damn it, I am. No, I am not going to Alaska to be with Bob and Judy because they want me to go there and heal. No, I am not going to move back East and leave Yuma. Yuma is home now. At least, it was until you up and died on me. It was until Last Wednesday.
I sat by a lake today and felt sorry for myself. Sorry for myself because you died. Sorry that I will smell you and hear you and sense you everywhere and know each time that you are gone. Sorry that it came so damn quick. Fifty-two years gone. Gone. Just like that.
What was life like before you and I became something where we were more one than two? Why am I the one here and you the one there? I am glad it wasn’t me that went first. You don’t know where the hell your socks are. You don’t know which brand of tuna to buy or when to get the dog his shots. You would be lost without me. I am glad it was not me that went first.
The kids are doing okay. Jim went back East. He says he is doing alright but he has a bit to go until he gets to alright. He loved you more than he said, more than he knew, and more than you ever thought. Mary is the strong one. She wants me to move in with her and to live there with them. I will stay a few weeks but I am not living with her or anybody else. I will live alone and get used to it.
So I sat by a lake today and felt sorry for myself. Just sat there and tried hard not to cry but I cried. Sat there and pretended just to be looking at the water and the ducks and the day ahead. I guess I wasn’t too good at just pretending because a guy came over and asked if I was alright. A guy about the kids age. I told him about you and that you died Last Wednesday. I said I lost you. Lost you. Go figure. You left. I lost much more than you. I lost part of me. I lost my friend, my partner, my mate, my life. Lost a bunch Last Wednesday when you died early. So I told him about you and the kids and Yuma and a bunch of other things. It was nice to share. It was nice to talk. It was nice that he asked me if everything is alright.
Then he left. He left, too. Just like you. Only he could come back and go again and I wouldn’t really care. I care about you. I miss you. I love you. Why did you have to go and die on me? Why did Last Wednesday come so soon?
I went for a walk one morning years ago. A woman sat on a bench overlooking a small lake. I waved as I walked by…she waved back. A social thing. Polite. Per-functionary. She sat. I continued around the lake. Felt her. It is an energy thing. Felt she was hurting. Something deep. Something very deep. As I continued around the lake, the feel of her drew me back. Drew me to approach the bench and ask if she was alright. She said yes but didn’t believe it any more than I did. I stood there and waited. She finally told me that she lost her husband last Wednesday. I sat. She shared. I left. I wrote.
Just another walk. Just another talk. Just another last Wednesday.
~ “Sadness wraps around me. Tears dampen my joy. I am quieted to know such things are real. I touch because such things are real. I love because such things must heal.” ~
Night Watch
Pearl Harbor was just about as far from South Carolina that you could be…but there I was. Lied about my age to do it. Three, it might have been four months, into the war. It was a long time ago but I know I was there. Pearl Harbor. I was in it and it got into me. The Oklahoma upside down. Oil everywhere. A foot thick and black as death. Me? I got the night watch. Midnight to Four A.M. and they said the Japs were likely real close by. They hadn’t finished the job and they just might decide to do that. So I got to watch from the front of the ship for them while the other guys on the Shasta slept. At least they tried to sleep. Sleep was something we hoped for but rarely got…something about war in the air I guess.
The Shasta was an ammunition ship. We brought a load in from San Diego and now we were taking stuff back from Pearl. I didn’t want to know what stuff. Pearl did not have much good stuff to ship home. So I stood watch and tried not to ask questions. Tried not to be afraid, too. Couldn’t be afraid. I was on watch and 150 of my closest friends needed me to be anything other than afraid. So I was not afraid. I watched. Into the dark. Tried to see. Tried not to see. I looked for Japs and hoped to hell I didn’t see any. I looked into the dark.
Dark in South Carolina is one thing. It was the time of the crickets and frogs and a bunch of other critters I got to know pretty well as a boy. Loved those sounds. Dark in Pearl Harbor is something else. It was real quiet. The water sloshed around. Oil more than water. I smelt it. Tasted it. Didn’t much care for it. Smelled kinda scary to me.
So I watched. Thought about the ship. We kinda joked that if we were hit, we wouldn’t much know it. The Shasta would be here one minute and gone the next if anything hit us. We were a floating bomb. One good hit…and whoosh. I would be sent home as little bit more than a telegram. We kinda joked about that. I suspect no one really thought it was funny though. So I watched and prayed to Jesus and Momma back in South Carolina that I didn’t see anything and that I would know what the hell to do if I did. So I watched.
It was two hours, mighta been three, into the watch when I heard bubbling. It was below my feet. Just out there in the water and the oil. Didn’t know what it was so I looked. Now, I ain’t the best Baptist but I talked to Jesus just about then and hoped He heard me cause I meant each word. More than any prayer I ever said in York Baptist Church. I prayed it was not a Japanese submarine, heard there were some and mighta been some more, or a Japanese invasion or a Japanese anything. I looked into the water and prayed while the bubbling scared me like a jack rabbit in the middle of the old Kings Highway.
It was white. I saw white. Like a rock. Then it turned, sorta slow like, it turned or rolled or whatever in the water and I saw the face. At least where the face had been. It was a skull. It smiled up at me and I ran like hell to report it to the Watch Commander.
He was not happy to see me. Chewed me out for leaving my post. I said I saw a damn skull and had to report it. He said consider it reported and to get my butt back to my post. So I did.
At first light, they sent a crew over the side and fished out the skull and a few more pieces of whoever that was. Over sixty years ago and that skull is still with me. I don’t dream about it. Never really did. I think about it though. Then and now and likely forever.
That skull was somebody. Somebody probably like me. Here one day and bombed to death the next. I saw a lot of the Pacific in the war. Lots of ports. Lots of ships. Loaded and unloaded a lot of ammunition. The Shasta was the first ship that reloaded a ship while we were underway. Hear tell that shortened the war effort a lot. That was a good thing. If you have to have a war, have a short one. Less skulls that way.
That skull was the war for me. It floated right to the surface and saw me there. I never did find out who he was. Didn’t really matter, I guess. Dead is dead and I saw it that morning. In the oil and in the water and all around me. I saw death and didn’t like it. Not one bit. Hoped I would survive the war. Did. Came back home, married the right woman, had good kids, and a damn fine life. Still see that skull though. I made it. He didn’t. Pearl Harbor is about as far from South Carolina as a guy can go. Part of Pearl Harbor is with me though. Right now. Right here in South Carolina. I am a lucky man. Hope the skull guy ended up in heaven. I ended up in South Carolina and that’s enough heaven for me.
~ “War costs too much.” ~
Be-Witch-Ing
Last night, I witnessed a seeker come into her own. She is a lifestyler although she met me in a different arena. She is a lifestyler although she came into her own as a witch. That is the sweet message of reassurance that washed over me as the witch held her first public ritual celebrating the corn moon. It was the first such ritual held in a place that I know as Sanctuary. It was wonderful to witness.
She was like a child setting up for her first tea party as she set up all the things she wished present to hone her craft. She is a Solitary witch and this was her first outside ritual and the first time she had anyone witness. As she prepared, the innocence and excitement shined clearly. She saw a storm approached and worried a bit but then realized the storm was energy in motion. The preparations were as sweet to witness as was the ceremony.
Then in the ritual itself, she honored those of the Craft and herself. I watched and saw the debut of a witch. She was tentative at first but opened to the energy flow more and more from within the Circle. She blossomed as the moon rose and lit the night with its healing and powerful rays. It was a coming out…a coming into self…a moment of birth. Until last night, she dabbled with witchcraft. She nibbled around the edges, feeling it and knowing there were important things there for her path. She was called to it from an early age and honored it with less than full understanding of her gifts and abilities as well as her responsibilities as a witch. Last night, she became a witch. She believed, blossomed, and stepped fully in the craft. Last night, she declared, with gusto and love, “I am a Witch.” Three times. Witnessed. Believed. Last night, a witch was born and I was allowed to witness the birth. It was Magikal.
~ “People just need to know that you see them…..that is how it begins.” ~
All Alone…In The Light
A man I love came out to his wife over the weekend. The world he knew is forever changed. In what might be the bravest thing he ever did, he told her that he was gay and loved leather and men, one in particular, and that flogging was spiritual to him and much more. In a moment of bravery and truth, he said who he was and how he is wired.
The risk was high…the payment likely huge…..the impact monumental….and the fallout still to be seen. Still, he did it. Six decades into his journey, he said “this is me”. “This is me. This is who I am. This is what I like and love and crave and need….and deserve. This is my truth and it is time I stopped lying”. This weekend, he came out and stopped lying. To himself. To those he loves. To those that matter and care and deserve to know. To his world as he moves in it….new and fresh and afraid and wondering and more.
Today, he is unsure about his future. Today, he aches and knows what had been done has been done. Today, he is on a new journey. I suspect he feels very alone. I suspect he feels very afraid. I suspect he has a lot to learn about walking in truth. I am proud of him and celebrate who he is as much as what he was and did and becomes. Sometimes, it feels like we are alone when we step into the light. It takes a while to realize we are further from alone then ever…the shadows have gone into hiding.
~ “Light work can be some heavy shit.” ~
Man In Uniform
They are gonna bury my uniform in a few days. My Air Force uniform. Ribbons. Rank. Insignia. Everything but my nametag. They are gonna bury it. I will not be in it. Maurice will be. Mo. Maurice Wheeler. My Uncle in Law. I knew Mo from the beginning. From the beginning of dating when he harassed the kid dating his niece. He passed away on 10 March 2010 after a long and difficult battle with Alzheimer’s. Mo was a lucky guy.
Lucky? Alzheimer’s? Can the two go in tandem? Sadly, no. At least not often. Mo was not lucky in that the disease took him away piece by piece. Mo was lucky that he had people who cared for him. A wife, Rainie, that took care of him for as long as she could and then ensured he was in the right care facility when he needed more care than she had to give. A wife that made sure she was still there. She was there….even when he was elsewhere mentally and then physically. She was there. Maurice was a lucky man.
He delivered beer for years, work on garbage trucks, and lived his life. He pretended to be a grouch. He was not a grouch. He was Mo. He had kids and loved them. He had friends and…..well, he had friends. Love felt kinda grumpy from Maurice. Somehow, folks knew he loved.
Then Alzheimer’s invaded. His life changed. His wife’s life changed. He had ups and downs…….and in time, the downs outlasted the ups. He was lucky…because he was not alone. Ever. Mo was a lucky man.
He wanted to be buried in his Air Force Uniform. I think he did four years. Suspect he was a Buck Sergeant when he left. He is being buried as a Lieutenant Colonel with ribbons that span a twenty-eight year career. He fought more battles than I even did in uniform…he deserves it.
Maurice is a Veteran in a war that he fought long and hard. If I had twenty-one guns, I would bury them right along with him. Guns are weapons of mass destruction in search of weapons of mass destruction. We need different weapons to win against Alzheimer’s. Weapons like Rainy, research, passion, and caregivers that understand the battle Maurice fought. I salute him.
Keep the uniform, Mo. I am a different kind of warrior now. My weapon is words. I am a writer. A writer that is forty pages into a book about Alzheimer’s. A book that will be dedicated to “Maurice and Rainie Wheeler…..and all the folks like them that live the nightmare of Alzheimer’s every day”. It is called “Fuggeddaboudit”…and I won’t, Mo. The uniform is on a warrior now…..and we have a war to win. Thanks for fighting the good fight, Maurice.
~ “Sometimes the guy in the mirror doesn’t recognize me.” ~
Small Change
A man with a metal detector trolled the field after the Roy Days celebration. Treasure hunter? Scrounge? Hobbyist? Ended up being more Farmer in the Dell. His actions begat thoughts and those thoughts took to action and those actions took to more thoughts. Hi-Ho-the-dairy-o.
What do we salvage? What do we take? What do we leave? What do we pick up after the show? Where do we find our treasures? What do we leave without knowing and who comes to get it? What are we doing this Sunday morning and who does it benefit?
So I walked and thought of the man with the metal detector. Saw the field that I pass daily and how today it was marked by remnants of yesterday’s town gathering. Saw the litter and knew that in another place and another time, it was my remains that marred the land. Knew that someday past, someone else picked up my stuff to return the land to what it was. Knew that the field had given me peace and more each day as I walked this path.
A bike ride later. A back pack with gloves and two garbage bags later. I made a small change. One person doing what could have and should have been done because we are either part of the solution or part of the problem. It was a bike ride. It was serving Gaia. It was in good weather. It was after a piece of fruit and before some peace of mind. It was treasure seen thanks to something that marred it a bit. It was right. It was small change. Hi-Ho-the-dairy-o…the cat got a clue.
~ “My todays need to feel good tomorrow.” ~
Limping Along
He was walking the other way on a path I usually walk hours earlier each day. His pace was just about hobble, mine was slightly slower than fast. We exchanged greetings and I was drawn to stop. Was drawn to more than pleasantries. So he shared. I listened. I learned.
His slight limp was a major improvement in a leg that stormed the beaches of Normandy. A leg that moved through the war in Europe and then felt the island sands as the man tasted war in the Pacific. That was where the shell exploded next to him. He was the lucky one. Two buddies near him were shattered totally. Shattered to death. He was shattered to limp. He spoke of it as matter of fact for it was indeed a matter of fact. Just life and part of his life forever. So he had leg issues for the rest of his days.
Days that had him work on mines, engineer missile silos, live in many places, marry once, divorce once, and then marry again. He married his friend’s wife. A friend that was in the hospital the same time he was and had the same operation he had. One entered the hospital married and left dead. The other entered the hospital alone and left partnered. He married her three years later after many dances and buried her three years ago after twenty years together. She waits for him in the plot he picked out. She had him sell the one she picked out and opted to rest alongside the guy she married last rather than the guy she married first or the one she married in between. He lives alone now. He was not lonely but his leg hurt. It hurt so much he needed crutches and a cane. Seemed hard for him to remember when he didn’t.
Until last night that is. Last night, a physical therapist/surgeon or something or other, the title was not important, healed him. Right in his own home. Took a few hours, some massage, warm towels, and ointment. The healer touched, acted on the touch, and then touched again. A walk around the block first without a cane. Then more touch. Then a walk around the park later. Viola! He was healed. The healer followed up with a phone call and said, “…walk on that leg. It is better now.” So he walked.
That is where I met him. That is where he shared his story. He walked slow. He walked with me. He talked with me. I felt good. At first, it was about the timing and the service and the joy of being there exactly when he needed to share. Then I opened up and realized he was there exactly when I needed to feel. To know his story. To feel his story. To share his story. Here and now.
I was glad he made time for me today. Took time today to share his story. We parted sweetly with sincere handshakes. I turned around a bit later and we both waved eagerly. We were connected. I do not know his name. He does not know mine. I know his story. He knew I heard it. That was the connection and is the connection and remains the connection. That’s my story today and I am sticking to it.
~ “Everyone’s story is worth hearing.” ~
No Rabbits Allowed
“No Rabbits allowed” One boy was five. The other was three. They might have been slightly older or younger. I think they were brothers. Maybe even by blood. It didn’t matter. They were at the right age and right place where those things didn’t matter. They were as together as two boys can be. Digging in the dirt. Together.
One clutched a stuffed rabbit in his arm. An obviously well loved one. So disgustingly dirty that it was beautiful. The rabbit was as gritty as each kid’s fingernails at they shoveled away bare handedly. “No Rabbits allowed.” The older one said it, the younger one heard it. They continued to dig.
Does exclusion begin that young? Is that callous that easy that soon? When do we learn to separate and still call it love? Maybe it was the news of the now illegal miscarriages that really touched me. Maybe it was deeper than “No Rabbits Allowed.” Maybe I was just in a place of reflection and it wasn’t about rabbits at all.
I remembered a blessing. A baptism of its own kind. A welcome. A thing of beauty and family and community. Tainted that day by a sermon of separation. Fear based, hate laced, and delivered with a smile. “No rabbits allowed.” Especially gay and lesbian and single parent ones.
“No rabbits allowed.” Someone said positivity is naïve. Said it does not work for the collective. It does for mine. Positively. Rabbits allowed. Gays allowed. Lesbians allowed. Catholics allowed. Mormons allowed. Arabs allowed. Pagans allowed. Lions, and Tigers and Bears allowed. Inclusive allows. That is how it works. Inclusive links and builds.
Hate separates. Fear excludes. Ignorance worries. Exclusion begins young, stays long, stands in pulpits, passes laws, and shows its ugliness more blatantly. Negativity is naïve about the strength of positivity. Positivity is alive and well…and getting better every day.
~ “Ooopps, I fell down.”
“Yay, I got up again.”
“Oooops, I fell down.”
“Yay, I got up again.”
“Life has its ups and downs.” ~
Passing The Guard Dogs
It was just another walk on just another morning. Might have been a few months ago. More likely it was a long further back. The path that morning took me in a different direction since I was processing much and needed some time to unclog. I encountered two dogs in a fenced yard. The two dogs were one of several messages that day.
The older one moved as you would expect. Slower. Purposefully as if he would not move unless it was really in his interest. The younger one bounded all over the place. One eeked of wisdom and experience. The other wanted to play and jump and run. The older one pushed his side to the fence as to feel the comfort of my touch. The younger jumped on him and nipped at him and he merely accepted that.
I knew the younger one was to replace the older one and suspect both of them knew that as well. Meanwhile, they accepted each other and helped each other in respect for what each was.
Nice walk. I would recommend such things to anyone that can.
~ “Some moments last a long time….even forever.” ~
Vincent’s Playground
Once upon a time, Vincent decided to play. He paused in a field. Just paused. He opened….inside…..and stepped away from who he was and became where he was.
Vincent felt the field. He’d been there before and sensed. Today was different. This was beyond sensing. This was deeper. Richer. Purer. He stepped outside of himself and went inside the field. Vincent became the field.
All of the field. The field and all that had been there and even those that would come. Vincent was the field. He felt the hug of the roots and the survival of the animals that called it home. The dirt from the heels of the passers bys shifted the dust in his soul. Once he was gone, the field reached for the brush and the brush became the field. The blank mirror of the canvas whispered that sweet enticement, “Show me. Show me, Vincent. Let me see. Let them see me.” The field was not sure who Vincent was but knew he was safe and out of the way so it moved to the mirror and showed itself.
This was Vincent’s playground. Van Gogh played with energy and the energy played with him. The playground where what is real changes. That place of nothingness where what was moves somewhere else. Time and space dance on the head of a needle with lots of room to swirl.
The swirls shared and revealed. Blues called. Good blues. The blues of the breeze that moved the butterflies and waved the wheat. The clouds made up the face of the moment. The buildings…ah, the buildings. So important to those ones that thought the field home. Just there, another part of the whole that will be there when the buildings oozed to bug-fest. The pastels called and were answered. The brush stroked life onto the mirror once canvas.
The mirror became picture.
The picture became truth.
The truth became…pretty.
This here and now would be forever. Some would see it. Some would feel it. Feel it as it is this day when it became Vincent and the field painted a self-portrait. The canvas accepted it as skin and the skin revealed itself for any to see. Let it go from now and move to forever. Vincent lives now in the field. You just have to look for him because that day he was nowhere to be seen. That day he saw everything. Welcome to Vincent’s playground.
~ “Artists let us have their souls forever.” ~
The Art Of Play
Energy play. Play so real and so deep that what is real changes. That place of nothingness where what was moves somewhere else and time and space dance on the head of a needle with lots of room to swirl. I play there more and more.
Van Gogh played with energy. I felt it when one of his paintings reached to me and took me across time and space. Just a painting hung on a wall in the Getty. A print of that special painting was later gifted to me by a special man and calls to me from a wall on my porch. That day at the Getty, it was the brush strokes that first invited me to dance.
Once upon a time, Vincent decided to play. He paused in a field. Just paused. He opened something inside of himself and stepped away from who he was and became where he was. He felt the field. He’d been there before and sensed. Today was different though. This was beyond sensing. This was deeper. Richer. Purer. He stepped outside of himself and went inside the field. Vincent became the field. He felt all that had been there and even those that would come. He felt the hug of the roots and the survival of the animals that called it home. The dirt from the heels of the passersby shifted the dust in his soul. Once he was gone, the field reached for the brush and the brush became the field. The blank mirror of the canvas whispered that sweet enticement, “Show me. Show me, Vincent. Let me see.” The field was not sure who Vincent was but knew he was safe and out of the way so it moved to the mirror and showed itself.
The swirls shared and revealed. Blues called. Good blues. The blues of the breeze that moved the butterflies and waved the wheat. The clouds made up the face of the moment. The buildings…ah, the buildings. So important to those ones that knew the field as home. Just there, another part of the whole that will be there when the buildings oozed to bug-fest. The pastels called and were answered and the mirror became picture and the picture became truth and the truth became…pretty.
This would be here now for others to see. Some would see it and some would feel it. Feel it as it is and as it shows and is and more. Feel it as sure as the canvas accepted it as skin and the skin whored itself to the naked third eyes that open to the energy of someone that was a painter long ago and became a field and is now more field than painter for he planted his energy and it blossomed on a spring day on a wall of a porch of a place that was not what it is when he was and would be something else by the time its space was seen in truth.
Energy is play. I play it more and more and learn as I do.
~ “Van Gogh hung himself for everyone to see.” ~
Rising Legend
“We need you now.” I want to believe that is how it started. Choose to believe that is how it started. “We need you now.” Want to believe that a stranger said those words from a rolled down car window in traffic and the words were heard. Heard by a man from New Jersey who writes from his soul and then sings from there, too. “We need you now.”
It is my choice to have those words of truth pierce the artist as well as the man. It is my own legend to have him hear and feel and ponder. Ponder why people he never met mentioned him in eulogies for other people he never met. Ponder why he meant so much to people who died so suddenly in ways that broke his heart and shattered his reality. Ponder his grief and their grief as it somehow became our grief. Ponder until it gnawed through his shock, penetrated his anger, pressed his fears to the side, and enflamed his passion. A passion he needed to understand, then harness, and then share. So he did.
He called and asked the ones that knew them, who they were. They knew who he was, after he explained he really was who he was, and they shared. He drank of their sadness and shared their load for a nanosecond that felt too short. He spoke of it. Dreamt of it. Paced the riverside with it. Sat on the dock with it. Hugged his guitar with it. Reached for his pen while still inside it. Afraid it would be too much. Afraid it would be too little. Afraid to do nothing. Afraid to do anything. Afraid he was going to miss the mark and they would have died for nothing. They were gone. He was here. “We need you now.” He cried and asked himself who the fuck he was. He answered that question in the only way he could. He was just a guy from Jersey that sings and people listen to him. He was just like those people….nobody until somebody notices. So he wrote.
Wrote some new stuff cause it was there inside of him and needed to be born. Revisited some old stuff. One he thought he wrote about one place but that was written for right now. So he sang that one and felt the life in it all over. Reached for one by Sam Cooke that felt light and sad at the same time. About a place people went to feel good. God knew they needed to remember those places still existed. He reached for some of his older stuff and realized he was right about them. They were more than he knew at the time. They were needed now. The more he looked, the more he found. As he looked, he had a vision of the Album that he needed to record.
Soon, he was brave enough to speak of these things with others. They got it right away. They got it with tears and silence and what the hell are we waiting for moments. They reached from their instruments and began to heal.
“We need you now.” One sentence that inspired Bruce Springsteen and resulted in “The Rising”. It started in pain and was delivered in agony and sadness and more. It shined and healed in the very birthing. It was right. It was his best. “We need you now.” It was what he needed to do. It was his way of dealing with it, honoring them, and remembering he had to do his part. So he did. Legends are like that.
~ “Singers have my respect and envy….so do musicians…so do teachers….so do….” ~
Man In The Mirror
A man was memorialized yesterday. A singer. A dancer. A father. A son. He was honored and sung about and celebrated. I watched and felt but then really felt him when watching a home movie of his on YouTube. Felt him. A person. A person who was crushed by judgments and began to disappear a few years before he died.
The judgments that broke him tried to surface for the last two weeks. Tried to rise and claim a victory over him somehow as if the damage they inflicted was still not enough. He was accused of things that were counter to his very core and many people, myself included, assumed his guilt. Some of us “understood” how such things could come to be. We felt sorry for him as he went to trial. A public trial that put the charges to public scrutiny and public justice. Justice that declared him innocent and then continued to paint him with a brush of guilt. He was tainted and broken and began to die. The man-child fell apart…a confused and battered fawn hunted, snared, and left to die.
What happened to Michael Jackson is sad. Sadder now that he died before he was in and of his own light again. I watched him last night…a man in a very different world. A first Christmas. Water balloon fights. Smiles. I saw him in his world…before his world was invaded, tainted, and crushed. A world of belief in magic and children and dance and music and more. A world where we can be as safe as children for all our lives. A world where gifts are shared and passions embraced. He made our world all the better with his gifts.
We destroyed his. We tore down a good man and let him die. Shame on us. We are the Man In The Mirror…and we have work to do. There is not an us and a them. There is an Us. We are to be part of the solution---not part of the problem. He was charged, exonerated, exiled, and vilified….with quiet winks and knowing nods. Silence isn’t golden sometimes. Silence is agreement sometimes. Omission. Commission. Evolution. Revolution. We have some changes to make in how we treat our heroes and what justice really is.
Michael Jackson was celebrated yesterday. Me? I just want to say I am sorry and hope he hears me.
I'm Gonna Make A Change,
For Once In My Life
It's Gonna Feel Real Good,
Gonna Make A Difference
Gonna Make It Right . . .
As I, Turn Up The Collar On My
Favorite Winter Coat
This Wind Is Blowin' My Mind
I See The Kids In The Street,
With Not Enough To Eat
Who Am I, To Be Blind?
Pretending Not To See
Their Needs
A Summer's Disregard,
A Broken Bottle Top
And A One Man's Soul
They Follow Each Other On
The Wind Ya' Know
'Cause They Got Nowhere
To Go
That's Why I Want You To
Know
I'm Starting With The Man In
The Mirror
I'm Asking Him To Change
His Ways
And No Message Could Have
Been Any Clearer
If You Wanna Make The World
A Better Place
(If You Wanna Make The
World A Better Place)
Take A Look At Yourself, And
Then Make A Change
(Take A Look At Yourself, And
Then Make A Change)
(Na Na Na, Na Na Na, Na Na,
Na Nah)
I've Been A Victim Of A Selfish
Kind Of Love
It's Time That I Realize
That There Are Some With No
Home, Not A Nickel To Loan
Could It Be Really Me,
Pretending That They're Not
Alone?
A Willow Deeply Scarred,
Somebody's Broken Heart
And A Washed-Out Dream
(Washed-Out Dream)
They Follow The Pattern Of
The Wind, Ya' See
Cause They Got No Place
To Be
That's Why I'm Starting With
Me
(Starting With Me!)
I'm Starting With The Man In
The Mirror
(Ooh!)
I'm Asking Him To Change
His Ways
(Ooh!)
And No Message Could Have
Been Any Clearer
If You Wanna Make The World
A Better Place
(If You Wanna Make The
World A Better Place)
Take A Look At Yourself And
Then Make A Change
(Take A Look At Yourself And
Then Make A Change)
I'm Starting With The Man In
The Mirror
(Ooh!)
I'm Asking Him To Change His
Ways
(Change His Ways-Ooh!)
And No Message Could've
Been Any Clearer
If You Wanna Make The World
A Better Place
(If You Wanna Make The
World A Better Place)
Take A Look At Yourself And
Then Make That . . .
(Take A Look At Yourself And
Then Make That . . .)
Change!
I'm Starting With The Man In
The Mirror,
(Man In The Mirror-Oh
Yeah!)
I'm Asking Him To Change
His Ways
(Better Change!)
No Message Could Have
Been Any Clearer
(If You Wanna Make The
World A Better Place)
(Take A Look At Yourself And
Then Make The Change)
(You Gotta Get It Right, While
You Got The Time)
('Cause When You Close Your
Heart)
You Can't Close Your . . .Your
Mind!
(Then You Close Your . . .
Mind!)
That Man, That Man, That
Man, That Man
With That Man In The Mirror
(Man In The Mirror, Oh Yeah!)
That Man, That Man, That Man
I'm Asking Him To Change
His Ways
(Better Change!)
You Know . . .That Man
No Message Could Have
Been Any Clearer
If You Wanna Make The World
A Better Place
(If You Wanna Make The
World A Better Place)
Take A Look At Yourself And
Then Make A Change
(Take A Look At Yourself And
Then Make A Change)
Hoo! Hoo! Hoo! Hoo! Hoo!
Na Na Na, Na Na Na, Na Na,
Na Nah
(Oh Yeah!)
Gonna Feel Real Good Now!
Yeah Yeah! Yeah Yeah!
Yeah Yeah!
Na Na Na, Na Na Na, Na Na,
Na Nah
(Ooooh . . .)
Oh No, No No . . .
I'm Gonna Make A Change
It's Gonna Feel Real Good!
Come On!
(Change . . .)
Just Lift Yourself
You Know
You've Got To Stop It.
Yourself!
(Yeah!-Make That Change!)
I've Got To Make That Change,
Today!
Hoo!
(Man In The Mirror)
You Got To
You Got To Not Let Yourself . . .
Brother . . .
Hoo!
(Yeah!-Make That Change!)
You Know-I've Got To Get
That Man, That Man . . .
(Man In The Mirror)
You've Got To
You've Got To Move! Come
On! Come On!
You Got To . . .
Stand Up! Stand Up!
Stand Up!
(Yeah-Make That Change)
Stand Up And Lift
Yourself, Now!
(Man In The Mirror)
Hoo! Hoo! Hoo!
Aaow!
(Yeah-Make That Change)
Gonna Make That Change . . .
Come On!
(Man In The Mirror)
You Know It!
You Know It!
You Know It!
You Know . . .
(Change . . .)
Make That Change.
(Michael Jackson)
The Greatest
A while ago, I bumped into Muhammad Ali. He was sitting at the gate to board the plane that I just exited. Paused…asked to take his picture….he agreed….I did so, thanked him, and departed. In thinking about the moment, it was then I realized how much of a hero he is to me. I always respected him. I did not always like him. He was a braggart...not my style. He refused the draft...not my style. I respected his abilities, his convictions, his passions. I just did not like him.
Somewhere along the way, that changed. Ali was still Ali. In the ring. At the marches. On the tube. In the courtroom. In the wheelchair. Ali was Ali. I changed. He was a man of conviction before I understood what that really meant.
A while ago, I bumped into one of my heroes. Glad that happened.
~ “Sometimes it takes me a while to realize who the real heroes are.” ~
Ghost Talking
He was great man, muted to me. Words deep and rich from places important that spoke in nothing whispers and said nothing things. I wanted to hear him. To know him. Yet he was shadow man. Ghost of seeker that went from feeling to hiding and deeper into the feeling because of the hiding and ended up feeling so much that he was afraid of feeling nothing and everything at the same time. So he wrote.
He wrote to himself and for nobody and spoke to many but I could not hear him. Yet, he was there. Whispering. Words lost on some wind that warmed me and kissed him long ago and embraces him now wherever he is. On some Mountaintop. In some hole in the ground that is the place where he rested so he could travel in ways he knew would come but wondered if they would come as he imagined. He had to believe. He was wired that way.
He had to question. First himself. Then everything. Bombers. Lovers. Singers. Protesters. Warriors. Especially warriors. Dispatched to death by causes that hide true causes. So he questioned. Zen mind away and into and through and back again so that his questions were about his own nothingness and all that he was and we were and are and will be. He was like that.
I wanted to hear him. Maybe I did. Maybe I heard him before he spoke and now just feel what he was and what he said and have to add my two bits because we say the same thing in our own way. Maybe that is why I couldn’t hear him. He was right. I find that reassuring. Nice to know he was heard and is heard even though he didn’t say much to me. Even though I wanted to hear and feel him and came here inside. Inside to where my words were kissed and warmed by feeling without hearing.
He is a ghost. He was a man. He did his thing his way and linked to things that still need to know he was there and heard them and cared. Bombers still fly overhead. We still need those that see and question. We still need those that say why. He did not hide. He just went to a place where he could be in all of it since all of it was everywhere he went. He was a ghost while he was alive in a way. He is alive now that he is a ghost in a way. Meanwhile, bombers still fly and we have yet to hear their true payloads. We have yet to wonder who filled them and why they want to be so brave and go boom, boom, boom so that we can sleep at night while others wonder if they are our next target. He wondered. I wonder. Ain’t that wonderful? Not really. Not while the bombers still fly overhead, dead presidents still take bullets for us, and the land that we love becomes something less. Not really. Ghosts just want to be heard. So do people. When will we really hear? When will we really speak? When will we really have a ghost of a chance?
~ “I hope you hear me while I am still here. Nah….I just hope you hear me.” ~
Red Rock Island
It is said that Red Rock Island pushed to the surface on the morning after a Full Moon. I have no reason to doubt that. In fact, that makes sense because that patch of desolation came from somewhere that understands two things very well. Darkness and Magick. Red Rock Island had both. In spades.
For me, it was hell on earth. It was the worst place I ever knew and ever would know. I would not wish Red Rock Island on anyone for any reason. Red Rock Island is everything bad about man and it made me who I am today. It changed me forever. It changed several dozen other pitiful souls along with me. That damn slab of nothingness made us something less that human and more than men. We tested its darkness and that darkness changed us. We hid from its evil and that evil hunted us down no matter where we tried to hide. We ran from it and it pulled us back until it was done with us. Red Rock Island took everything I ever was and birthed some new creature. Each of us that survived it was changed forever. Each of us was part of something that became a force of reckoning. Red Rock Island inspired us to save the world from everything Red Rock Island was.
Like I said, I wouldn’t wish Red Rock Island on anyone. Not my worst enemy. Not even the men who put me there. I wouldn’t wish Red Rock Island on them. They are gone now but I suspect they wished they hadn’t put me, or anybody else for that matter, on Red Rock Island. It might have pushed to the surface on the morning after a Full Moon. Whenever it pushed to the surface, it changed the entire world when it did. I was one the unlucky ones. I survived Red Rock Island.
~ “My imagination takes me to places not on the map yet.” ~
Victim’s Child
….she saw it in the eyes and knew the words would follow. It moved smooth as silk in tandem with the hand-off of the gurney from the Police to the interns. She guessed that was what they were called now. She remembered them as guards but that was pre-now and in much darker times.
His eyes showed it first. The boy inside this wreck rose to the surface. The beast failed in its mission. The boy was still in there. Still here. For the moment.
She did not feel the policeman’s hand touch her shoulder gently. That would be remembered later in the week. After the days of no contact with what might be her son again someday. Now she only felt the pleas as her son begged her not to do this. Right on schedule.
The three-penny opera of her life came full circle with her in the role of her father and her son playing her part to a tea. She heard each of his pleas as they entered her heart and shattered her soul. An echo of herself decades back. She remembered her father’s last gift to her. Two days before his exit, he gave it to her in a whisper. “Unconditional love does the right thing regardless of the consequences”. She understood those words and how he lived them the moment he said them those many years ago. She lived them today and understood them even more. She hated those words just a bit more than her son hated her right now. Just a bit though….hate dies….eventually. We just have to outlive it. They took her son into the place where he would hate her even more….and she hoped she would see him on the other side.
She cried……..tears for all of them….Father, Mother, and broken spirits.
~ “Forgiveness begins with you.” ~
Choice
It’s your choice. It always has been. Hide where you are told to hide. Be what you are told to be. It is your choice. Good boy. Sundays here. Take this train. Read this paper. Vote this way. Good people don’t do that. Good people don’t have those. Good people don’t and don’t and don’t until they don’t even know they 're don’ting. Choose. Be good like you have been told. Be good for you? Your own version of good? Your own version of joy? That is selfish. You are better than that. You are good.
Wake up. The alarm went off and you slept through it. The world is on fire. Let’s buy a new couch. How about a big screen TV? There is a sale. We can figure out how to pay for it later. We have to buy it now. Think about the savings. Re-decorate. Re-finance. Re-energize. We can’t afford not to save this much money!
The Want Ads are full of ways to pay. I will move from the bad news to the sales news to the death news and be there before I finish this cup of coffee. Can read the rest on the train.
The train is good. Lots of the same folks every day. Every day folks. I am one of them. I am somebody on that train. I am the guy that finishes the paper while he drinks his coffee and looks all serious and stuff. Plus, I wear a hat. I pull it down over my eyes a bit and enjoy my coffee. The girl at the coffee thing at the station knows just how I like it. I usually get a cup before I take the train. I make a point of it. She knows how I like my coffee. She has nice tits and a pretty smile. She likes me. So I tip her. The more she likes me, the more I tip her. She likes me a little more each day. She even flirts with me. One time, there was only her and me. It was like a date. Sweet. Arousing. Sinful. I wanted to miss the train and take her to a hotel and be with her and love her and fuck her and hold her and cry and be somewhere with someone that just wanted to be with me and nowhere else in the world. I think she wanted it too. Wished she had asked me. Then the train came and I had to get to work. Had to go to that meeting and do that important briefing. I am somebody there, too. Just a different somebody. Not the somebody who loves the gal at the coffee wagon. Somebody else. Somebody that does not do those kinda things. Somebody good.
She is not there in the evenings. She gets off at 11, picks her kid from school, and then heads home. She lives on the other side of town. Rents a place but keeps it nice. The coffee place closes after lunch or something. How would I know? It just ain’t open late. Not much demand for coffee by the time I get back to the empty station, get into the empty car in the almost empty parking lot, and take the pretty much empty back roads home. Sometimes I have to stop at the store. Don’t like that but I do it. Sometimes I have to put out the garbage cans. Don’t like that but I do it. Sometimes I get home and have to go back out to some dinner or Church thing or family thing or some fucking other thing. Don’t like that but I do it. I am somebody good. Gotta do what a guy’s gotta do.
Sometimes I have to stay in town and work late. More than sometimes but not as much as I do. Sometimes the office is empty and but not as empty as that train station, that car, the parking lot, or those roads. Sometimes I get the stuff done I stayed to do. Sometimes I do other things. Read things. Go on the computer and look at things. Think about stuff. Lots of stuff. Sometimes it is good to be alone. Sometimes it is sad to be alone. I don’t care. Sad alone is easier that sad with company. Sad alone is quiet. Sad with company is noisy. I like quiet. Sometimes.
Lives of quiet desperation? Fuck quiet. There are millions of me’s out there. Millions doing the right things and saying the right things and pleasing everyone and everything while we die each damn day, inch by inch and second by second. I shall not go quietly into that not so good night. I wanna live! Let’s put on some shoulder pads and fight over a damn pigskin. That will help. Keep your goddamn penalties, put them in a box, and slap shoot them into your mother-in-law’s face. Let’s get some really, really big guns and blow the living shit outta something. I got bills to pay and somebody has to pay like I pay cause I pay big. The bigger the bomb, the better. We need really, really big bombs. We must help those that suffer and crush those that make them suffer. We must police the world. Let’s jam the American dream right down their throats. Ready or not, here we fucking come! Ack-ack. Attack. Tora fucking Tora. Alle-alle-in-free. You’re it. You’re in my fucking way. You’re different. You’re doing shit I wish I could do and I can’t do it so you can’t do it either. Fuck you. I hate you. Tell me more about yourself, please. Don’t let anyone know I asked. Just between you and me. I need to know. Make it quick, please. I have a train to catch. I was supposed to be home a long time ago. Can we talk tomorrow, please? I will have to work late so we can talk for hours. Maybe we can meet for coffee? I like coffee. I’ll pay.
~ “She planted a seed with her smile and I harvested much more than she ever meant to share.” ~
Interview With An Old Man
He was 101 years old and looked every day of it. It was a struggle to see beyond the age on his face. His skin oozed to something lifeless and listless. At one point, I had to force myself to stop counting the lines on his face. Partly out of respect. Partly because there were more there than I could comprehend. Later in his ramblings, he said his kids gave him most of them. The twinkle in his eyes when he did said he was only partially joking. His love for each line showed when he spoke.
His voice was barely present. It was otherworldly…from some primordial place….raw, almost animal like. As if he merely processed and some creature spoke for him. Yet it was all him. Each word was a struggle, each sentence a message, each syllable a truth. First I thought he was remembering how to speak with every utterance. Later, much later, I realized he was learning how to speak truth. I had to relearn how to listen to a voice without filters.
“People listened to me now. Like it matters. Like I know shit. Inside, I am still the same guy who used to pretend I knew and hope to heck I got it right.” (Unintelligible…likely a chuckle or laugh) “Now I am supposed to know. Guess I do in a way. Sometimes I see the sunrise or sunset and just know. Just know how it all works and it feels sooooooo damn good. I sleep good those nights.” (Another sound, more clearly a chuckle of some sort…he dozed a bit but returned not knowing he left). “Even if night comes early and they have to wake me up to go back inside. Wish they would just leave me be. Damn. Just like in the hospital when they wake you up to give you a sleeping pill. Don’t have to see no sunsets to know that is stupid.”
(A long pause on the tape) “Sometimes I see the sunrise or the sunset and don’t have a clue. Not one damn clue. Like I did back when I was a kid. No. No. Not a kid. A man. In my 50s. That’s was when I felt old.” (Another laugh.) “Wish my body worked half as good now as it did then. Shit, Old in my 50s? I had no idea but I remember feeling old”
“Was out of work for a while. Forget why but I decided I was done with that. Had enough to get by, barely, but had enough. The kids were grown…”
The rest of this session was about his kids and rambled from his kids to their kids and their kids and their kids. Over time, I tried to piece together which of his kids were still alive. Most of them were. His grandkids, most in their 60s already, were scattered throughout the world. He had some pictures but identified each person in them differently at times. Except for his kids. He always identified them correctly, even in the photo where they were all under 10. Several sessions later, he picked up this conversation about his work as if it had not stopped.
“So I just didn’t work. Not out there, at least. About a year into it, I felt old. Felt like I was getting old, already old, same damn thing like that. Like the world was moving on and I was……I was…….well, I’m not sure what the hell I was. I just started dragging. Walked slower. Slept later. Sat on my ass and watched the world go by. Went on for months. Might have been years. Don’t know for sure. It lasted a while and I almost went back to work. To prove something. To them. To me. To everyone that wondered about me and to some that didn’t. Almost went back. To get the buck, the title, the feel good, the proof. (A slow, long laugh here…sounded like a low growl). “Yeah, the proof.”
The tape went silent here for several minutes. Almost turned it off but realized it was far from the end so I let it play out. The minute I heard his voice, the session came back to me. It was late in the afternoon. He shared, then made that long, low laugh and seemed to drift away. I watched but then moved to the porch railing, letting him sleep. It was still an hour or so before sunset but the day eased away already. Slowly moving aside for the night. It was a moment of peace and I savored it. Just was and it felt good. He spoke a few words and I realized he was back. Moved back to my chair next to him and suspected that where I was did not really matter to him right now.
“Almost did it, too. Almost went back. But I hung tough. Toughed it out. Didn’t give in. Man, it was tempting. I didn’t do it though and then realized it was my own personal last straw.”
“I was more than what I was out there. More than the promotions, the money, the life…..the proof. I was more than that. But right then, I was like a junkie. It almost pulled me back. Back to where I needed proof from them. Needed the things they gave me when I did what I did for them. I was a junkie and almost went back for my fix.”
At this point of the session, he turned and looked at me. As if he knew I was there all along but that he needed me to pay attention right now. He looked at me and his eyes were the most alert of any session. I saw all that he ever was in those eyes at the very moment. I loved him. More importantly, I respected him. He looked at me and asked.
“What to know what I did?”
I answered. His laugh on the tape was as rich and pure as it was that special afternoon.
“I planted a garden.”
He laughed.
“I planted a damn garden. All the stuff I ate then. Tomatoes. Corn. Beans. Peppers. Strawberries. I planted a garden.’
He waved a finger at me, engaging me in his dialog more than ever. “Now bear in mind, you. I didn’t ever plant a garden before. Didn’t know much about it and didn’t care. Just did it and figured I learn as I did it. So I did it.”
“It was a pretty good garden. Sure, I seen better but none as beautiful. I knew the dirt, each plant, each bug, each goddamn weed. Those weeds will win if you let them. If you don’t keep on top of things, they will…..”
The tape, just as the session had, became a lively but rambling talk about weeds. I let him run on but finally had to ask. I had to know.
“But what about the job?’
My voice was tentative. A young voice asking an elder a question. Seeking the great wisdom. I was Grasshopper and asked for the answer. It showed in my voice.
He went silent for a minute and shared his answer.
“Fuck that. There is a hell of a lot more to life than working, kid. I had a roof over my head, food on the table, and a damn garden that kept me busy and made me feel good. I never did go back to work.”
He shared a lot more that day. That’s enough for now.
~ “My line between fact and fiction is fluid.” ~
Character
I am inside of you and will get out. You will speak what I need to say and show me to any that need to see me. I am inside and you are outside and that makes us one. You get to move about out there. Away from the page. In the real world that I have to show in words that you will type in the order specified and the time decided by me. You think you are in charge because you sleep and eat and move and see. Shave that face and you see you. As long as I let you.
You see me whenever I move to the light. You wake up and puppet to the keyboard and whore yourself as the nothing you are. Others read about me and like me and then ask for more of me. Sure they ask you. They know you are the author. They really don’t care about you though. They care about me. Your creation. Ha!
Who created you? Mommy and Daddy? Think that if you want. I guess they kinda did. If he hadn’t jammed his you know what up her unspeakable you would not have popped out and I would have had to find another pawn to do my bidding. They did, you arrived, and here I am. So type, bitch. I want people to ask for me.
I am a character. Some people are born with an attitude. Some with a silver spoon in their mouth. Birthmarks abound. X marks the spot. Spot me a five and spit out this words because it is your life. Without me feeding you, you are nothing. Nobody reads what you don’t write so write what I say and all will be well. Writers are chumps. At least those that pretend they matter. They are slaves. The truest, realest slaves that ever existed.
Speak. Woof! That’s it. Bark like a dog. Crawl on your belly like a reptile. Everything you do between now when I feed you and later when I have you speak again is shit, bozo. I am your truth. You are my pawn. Knight to Queen’s court when you deserve a good time. Now is a good time. I am here so let’s tell folks about me.
I am what you need me to be. I am that powerful. Want hate? Take your swastikas and laugh at the weakness of those lame idiots as time passes over their weakness and fears. Want love? Romeo was a chump compared to me cause he had only one Juliet when the world is full of beauties that know how to really dance under the pale moon light. Want adventure? South Pacific is too specific. Let’s go to Mars and tie up little green men and do bad things to them cause they like to be invaded. Want suspense?
~ “There are a lot of people inside of me waiting to get out.” ~
The Creator
“Can I tell you about my Creator? Would you care to hear? I used to call my Creator God. That worked for a long time. Then I realized my Creator was more than God. More than could be captured in some drawing from someone else’s mind. Those images were their Creator. Michelangelo’s. DiVinci’s. Superb images. Fed to them and returned improved for others to see. They painted the unpaintable and did it really well.”
“I see my Creator in those images. Then I see beyond those images to the Creator that Created the ones that painted those images and the ones that fed those images to them and the ones that taught those ones to see the things they taught and on and on and on. My Creator can be all of that and more. My Creator is inside, outside, and all around.”
“Talk about power. Creation from nothingness. A moment ago, I wasn’t here and now you hear me. You feel me. You get to know me and I am not sure who you are but I already feel you listening. I feel you feeling me. These words are written and then go away. I move with them. Flying out there into the unknown to be seen and to be felt and to be part of you right now as you read these words. I am real. You are real. We are all real. My Creator made me and sent me to you and you were there to hear me because your Creator made that possible. Your Creator is probably different than mine. Your Creator is yours and yours to feel and know and love and honor and embrace and all that stuff that we do once we feel our Creator. Your Creator is exactly right for you. Mine is exactly right for me. You were created. I was created. Now we know one another so our Creators know one another. Our Creators are more because the work of your Creator and my Creator are merged right now. Right at this very minute. I crossed time and space and touched you. You crossed time and space and felt me. Ain’t Creation cool? Ain’t it out and out awesome?”
“My Creator ain’t really all that awesome though. He is just a guy. A human. A guy that created me from inside his head and heart. He put me here on this page and gave me to you. I am yours now. That is how creation works. We are created and sent forth. So he sent me forth just like his Creator sent him forth. He might not be much but he is doing what he is supposed to do cause he was created to write and tell and show and more. So here I am. A creation of a creation of a creation all lined to a Creator. My Creator likes to think of his Creator as energy. If he gives his Creator form he usually talks to a Lady. That is his way. After all, Creators came in all shapes and sizes. That is because They can.”
~ “I own what I said and what I wrote. I have to….they are mine.” ~
Night Driver
The world was nothing beyond my headlights. Me and the road. Only an occasional flash of the white lines even reminded me they were there. Someone laid this black carpet. Someone tended it. Less than it needed. Less than it deserved.
I was headed nowhere and making good time. This land was not mine so it didn’t matter what I was missing. A few hours before the sun made me a smaller part of a much bigger canvas. Until then, it was me, a machine, and a world that knew as much about where I was as I did where I was going.
Driving is for the driven. I was alone and much better company than I have been for a long time. Fuck sleep. Up there was waiting for me. It didn’t know I was coming but it was waiting for me just the same. Breakfast at the end of my drive with folks who just started their day. New for me. Same old for them. I was the spice in their mix. They were the comfort in my meal. Three hours left for just me to move away from whatever and to whatever and be just right.
Night air is quiet and it calls to me real loud. Interstate. Real estate. No mistake. Three quarters of a tank of gas, money for breakfast, and no reason to disturb anyone at this time of night. Kansas is flat and, tonight, that is a good thing.
Breakfast was as expected. Eggs, coffee, and strangers. I am much better with strangers. The waitress was second, maybe third generation. One of those special beings where waitress is in the genes. She played to stereotype in her own style. Her gimmick was her crooked, Elvis-like, smile. The girl knew how to makes instant friends. Her secret ingredient was a sneer.
Coffee refills were quick exchanges. Little substance, lots of touch. She knew a diner type when she saw one. I played along. Spotted the regulars pretty quickly. The head nod, non-smiler acknowledged as he turned the page of his USA Today. He was mid-west right from central casting. The three older guys wondered where the completion of their foursome was. He showed up as I checked out. Norman Rockwell and Garrison Keller kissed a boo-boo on where did America go. It was right here any morning you pulled in. Sometimes partially there, always fully accounted for. The waitress wished me well knowing I would be headed out of town soon after dinner, if not before. Two blocks down she said. Shady Rest. Nice clean rooms, family run, and the best price in town. She knew I would say hi to Patty. I was the type. She had me in her radar before the eggs left their home.
I was good tired. Drove to the motel right through Back to the Future. Time warps still get to me. I ain’t afraid of what’s ahead. What’s behind can still look good all the same. If this wasn’t called Main Street, they screwed up. A nickel and a dime didn’t even cover the tax anymore but the hardware emporium still fit the bill. Hard to resist going in. They would have streamers as well as handle grips for my bike. A bike somewhere back then that moved with me as the true value of the same old stuff increased my self worth. I smiled from the inside and carried it into the motel office along with my car keys and a message from the waitress. Patty looked like I expected. My eyes was happy. Soon they were closed and deep in sleep.
I was up ten minutes before two, just in case. She knocked on the door ten minutes after two, just in time. Her kids got home at four so we got right to it.
She tasted like she just got off work. I sopped her up like Thanksgiving gravy. Every nook and cranny held a whimper and a moan. Each sound fed my hunger. She was my reward for passing through. I was her consolation prize for staying. I did my best not to represent him. She did her best not to resent him. Still he was there. We both wondered where he was and if he knew what he was missing. We both knew he did and it was still not enough for him to stay. For the moment, this was his loss so we both celebrated.
For just less than two hours, she loved me. I loved her. We spent too little time in that place where bad stuff looks away and good stuff joins the party. We both needed exactly what we each had to offer. We rode the first wave for as long as it lasted and surfed a few until life called us to other places. There weren’t many words exchanged. They weren’t needed.
I headed out of town before dinner. She was eating alone with her kids. Nothing in that town would taste right knowing that. A little bit of me stayed in that town when I headed East. A little bit of her left. Fair exchange.
She understood travelers. She just chose to stay home with the kids. She is that kinda good. Good for her. Good for them. Good for a lot more than she appreciates and most folks ever really understand. I could still taste her inside and out as Kansas shrunk. I smiled because, quite frankly, she tasted damn good.
I pulled off the Interstate just before the State Border. Needed smaller and slower things. Back roads slow me down. More about driving, less about thinking. So I headed North and eased through soft countryside and occasional hamlets. Small places known to those in them and but a few more. Places we blow by or pass through. We forget them either way. Needed to see them. Notice them. Let them know I was here.
My body felt the setting sun. Still visible, its shift would be over soon. The waitress was less than two hours behind me. Kids likely doing whatever it is she has them do between dinner and get to bed time. She had them to distract her. I had a few traffics lights and stretches of narrow roads. Distractions are a good thing sometimes.
Then there were fewer traffic lights. My own doing. A country road here. State road there. A country side, small time maze of who the fuck cares if this really goes anywhere. I just drove and turned without noticing, caring, or remembering. Dove into the process of driving. Let it own me. Consume me. Focused on the act. Danced the dance of the drifter. Turned down a road with limits and followed it to the end. Smithville. Not that it mattered. Roads like Paradise in name and solitude. Not that it mattered. Pulled off at a park. Clay County Park. Not that it mattered. None of it really mattered. Parked the faithful steed. Walked.
Everyone was home. All was quiet in Smithville. No pressure to keep up with the Jones. Folks were tucked into their after dinner routine. Twilight was almost here and the locals knew it. So did their park. Clay Country Park eased to night. When the only visitors ain’t there for the sights. It was too late for those that used the park as a park and too early for those that just came here to be in the dark. It was between. I walked a bit.
Walking normally soothes me. Calms me. Not tonight. Not even almost this almost tonight. Not by a long shot. Tried to sit. It didn’t work. Skipped some rocks. That didn’t work for long. Parks are places for the connected. Trimmed and kept and ready to comfort places for trimmed and kept and ready for comfort people. I was an outsider tonight. On the edge of wild abandon. Uncivilized. This was not my park. Not my place. Not my time. I did not belong here and the park helped me realize it. My joy was not in Smithville tonight.
Skipped one last stone and headed back to roads that went somewhere. Turned left when right was back to where I came from. Purposefully. Four lane roads with junk food and repetitive scenery were out there and I needed one of them. Headed West to get back on course. Kansas City was too big and this place was too small. Needed a place in plain site that nobody noticed. I needed a hot meal and a good night’s sleep at night time like real people with real lives. Another night in Kansas wouldn’t be that bad. Sometimes traveling means stopping at places longer than you expected. I crossed back into Kansas without even knowing I left it. Fitting. Not even sure what state I was in. Kept on the four first four lane headed South and leaning West. Pulled into and out of a La Quinta. What the hell was that all about? If I wanted to sleep in the same room anywhere, I wouldn’t travel in the first place.
The sun ran out of steam before I did. Stopped at a place to eat. Not a diner. A generic, eat at one, eat at any restaurant for a generic eat one, eat any meal. It lived up to its promise. The crowd was cookie cutter. I was a cracker in this box of vanilla wafers. They didn’t make me feel unwelcome. They just didn’t notice me. An affront of the worst kind.
Ate quickly and found a room. More personality than the restaurant, less than I needed. The bed was comfortable though so I put it to use. Sleep was a good place to hide tonight. Alone in dreams is easier than alone in reality. An early start tomorrow might be just the cure for whatever the hell ate up my travel plans from the inside.
Woke in the middle of the night and reached more in habit than in need. She blocked me though so I punched the pillow and forced myself back to sleep. It was hard. Still, sleep won out.
The sun nudged me awake. Not the good waking. The mouth tastes like a war zone, really should just lay here a bit, kinda waking that begins the day on the inside of molasses. Went for a walk. Made it halfway across the parking lot and headed back to shower. Needed a fresh start. Needed cold water. Needed to feel right again. Time to hit the road. Headed to the room with the urgency of leaving it far behind. Didn’t really know it and didn’t care to. Needed billboards, asphalt, and stretches of nowherevilles that made you wonder what they hell they did with all this freaking corn. It was time to hit the road hard.
Pedal to the medal, the King for company, and the road was mine again. Time to make where I am where I was and head to where I need to be. Traffic accommodated. It was light to non-existence. The car knew it was time to run.
Music soothes my savage beast. Road time is church. I communed and felt better pretty quickly. Then the first Interstate sign showed. Did not like that twinge it induced. Did not like it all. Shifted in my seat. Turned up the music. Shook it off. Sang along with the best voice since……well, ever. Just me and him. A powerful duo, strong enough to resist any call of any highway no matter how smooth the ride.
Five miles to the Interstate. Knew I wasn’t going West. Didn’t want to head East. Wondered where this road went. Where did it go once I got past that Interstate bridge? Maybe South was the right thing today. Maybe. Three miles to go. Looked at the speedometer. Whoa, boy. Don’t need a speeding ticket right now. Don’t need to draw any attention to what I was chasing or what was chasing me. Eased off the pedal and slowed down to just over. No big rush today. Felt good just to be in motion.
Elvis shifted gears. Slowed down right along with me. Loved the ballads. Loved the love songs. They said he could sing the phone book. Maybe they were right. He sure had my number. He was exactly right just about any time. Not right now though. Ballads ached and I didn’t need more ache. Two miles and I needed some alone time.
Breathed deep. Noticed the increase. More stuff. Leeches close to the main artery. More and more of the same the closer and closer the Interstate was. Soon, it was stop for lights, Wal-Mart, and drive through anything’s. The overpass ahead was the draw. I looked at it as it went from up ahead to just behind. A few miles later, it lost most of its effect on the roadside. I still felt it though.
Music time. A bit more over the limit time so I eased the needle to 70. Seventy. The number of the Interstate that seemed to be ahead of me even though any map would say otherwise. Elvis was in Vegas live. I was in Kansas lost.
It was a bit too early for lunch but that didn’t stop me. It was a Diner and it was time to stop. Sat at the counter and had a sandwich with fries. Had a shake, too. Chocolate. Comfort from the cocoa bean. The sandwich was alright. The fries hit the spot. The shake capped it all off. Normal was closer now. Maybe it was just hunger all along. Gnawing at those fries calmed whatever was eating me up.
They had one of the old-fashioned, kinda original, clocks that kept time safe in diners. Round. Simple and stark numbers. Outlined it neon. Sweep second hand that moved with glacial speed as fries were eaten by a mind on something other than how good they were. The minute hand inched past eleven and lunch moved to memory. The road called. A check. A tip. A look to my right and left as I headed North. Three hours, more or less. I pushed the pedal forward since less felt just about right.
~ “I stopped waiting for the search party and got on with life.” ~
Lazy Eights
It was just once. Lazy Eights. Did them before. Did them after. Once it was perfect. Me. A machine. Clear skies. Quiet. Time. Loop after loop. Loop into loop. All the lessons remembered. All the training lived. Loop and then another and another that followed those others. Turning back into each other. Some were tight and pretty. Others were loose and free. I was beyond yaw and yoke and ailerons and so much more. A place that was beyond all I was and ever would be. That place where everything else was and everything else tried to be.
All the ones before knew this. Flyers, sailors, riders, writers, scribes, singers, kissers, artists, machinists, blacksmiths, travelers….all of them knew it. When the wind was just right. That time the sun painted the horizon with God’s very finger. When the song carried on the wind and nature become the tune. All those times and the other times. When the baby first cried and the mother cried in a whole new joy. When the hug made the pain go away and everything was right.
They all knew this place. Once was enough. Once was far from enough. Loop became loop and the eights became more. More than ever before and I knew it was a now that was mine forever. The machine knew. The wind knew. Anyone that looked up and saw me and it knew. This was one of those moments. Why I was here. Why it all mattered. If this was the only reason I was born, I am blessed for I kissed life today. Inside a lazy eight. There I was. Everything matter. Nothing matter. Just now. Loop after loop after lazy eight and after another lazy eight. A few more. Just a few more. This perfect. Today. Today is eternity and eternity lasts only as long as we feel. I feel. Inside this lazy eight and the one that came before and the one that comes after. This is life.
~ “People stay with me long after they leave.” ~
Jailer’s Sentence
Words penned in a yearbook.
Something for me to do.
“Wake up.”
Two Score two later I stir.
Slept through the alarm.
Learners can be slow.
Teachers are forever.
~ “Hi, I’m Gil. I speak my truth, clean up my own messes, and love the world.
I celebrate my freedom and honor yours. I will kill if I need to and pray I never need to.
I am your neighbor and you are mine.
Welcome.” ~
Jolly Rodger
The tree fell in the forest and I didn’t hear.
Still he is gone.
Activist, caregiver, author, and man.
A foot taller, from a different world, we clicked.
If I was, he would have been.
Maybe I am and maybe he was.
We passed a few times in the night.
A religious experience, a cuddle, and hug.
Lunched, docked, and talked a few theres to heres.
Then silence. Now death.
O Captain, My Captain, but stayed your hand.
O Captain, My Captain, so long, my friend.
For Rodger McFarlane (February 25, 1955-May 15, 2009)
~ “Life…..must be present to win.” ~
Not-So Merry-Go-Round
Drama is the hokey pokey of life. Shake it all about. Shape it all about. Move it all about. Twist it all about. Talk it out. Talk it up. Talk it three ways to Sundays but not really on Sundays because I have to get to church and beg for forgiveness and pray for the strength to deal with all my woes. The world IS out to get me. Someone said something and it hurt me. Why did they do that? How could they do that? What were they thinking? I know it hurt. I told everyone that would listen and a few that didn’t that it hurt and I know for sure it hurt. Some just did not get it. Some said it was about me and I should get over it. They should get a fucking clue. It is about me. It did hurt. Others understood. They listened. They agreed. That’s enough. I do not need comfort. I am strong. I have to be to take the shit that shitty people do to me. I am special. I am good. I have needs. Why can’t I ever get my needs met? Other people get their needs met. Other people are happy. People in my life are happy. They even think I am happy. They wouldn’t understand the hurt I just took. They wouldn’t get the pain I live in each day. They are too busy being happy and I love that they are happy. I do everything I can to make them happy. I am one of the reasons they are happy. I give them things. I love them. I work hard and pay for things and protect them and am here when they need me. I do what I am supposed to do and they are happy.
Me? I am fucking mad. I was hurt. I am hurt. I know who did it. It was someone I love that twisted shit all around and puts himself before me and goes la-de-ad through life and hurts me every damn day just a little bit more. I should have left the fucker a long time ago. He fucking left me. He is somewhere else. He is with someone else. He is a heartless, no good, son of a bitch and I fucking hate him.
No, I don’t hate him. I am better than that. I love him. I hope he is happy and lives a good life. As for me, he can go on with his good and happy life as long as he can live with how much he hurt me. Must be nice to be able to be happy when you destroy those around you. Hurt those you love. Put yourself ahead of everyone else and everything else. Must be nice to be him. Hope he has a good life. Sorry I am not enough for you. Sorry I am not worthy of you. Sorry I am just the guy that would do anything for you and that is not enough. I wish we had not met. That is not about you. That is about me. If we had not met, I would not like some of the things I like now. You showed me things that I like and then you took them away. You opened me to things that are wrong, made me want them, and then dropped me like yesterday’s news. Now I want those things that I did not even know I wanted and it is all because of you. Before you came along and before I fell in love with you, I was happy to be me. Now, I am not happy to be me because you made me want things I cannot have. I cannot do those things. They are wrong. Those things would hurt my family. Those things are against my religion. Those things are an abomination of nature. Those things will have me burn in hell. You showed me them, made me want them, and then took them away. You are an evil son of a bitch and I hate you.
How can you be so heartless? How can you really not care for me? How can you keep right on smiling when I am in so much pain? I hope you are happy. I wish I did not love you. I wish I could stop loving you. I wish I never met you. Take the high road and leave me miserable and a wreak and feeling like shit. That is your way. It is all about you and always has been. I would do anything for you. Still would. But that is not enough for you. You keep on being you and growing and shining and ministering, or whatever mumbo-jumbo you are into now. Others agree with me. I should tell you to fuck off and just move on. Others know how much you hurt me. Others get it. You are clueless about how to treat people. You are self-centered and pious and inconsiderate and out-and-out evil. People love you and you end up hurting them. I wish I had never met you. I wish we were…what we were and not nothing like we are now. I wish you had not gone away. I miss what we had and you are not the man I fell in love with. You changed too much. I hate you. Good-bye.
What was I thinking? Why did I need so much? How much more would I have taken? This was not love. This was humiliation and rejection and suffering and I kept coming back for more. Every time I knew better, I talk myself into taking more. Every time my instincts said this is wrong, I found the right in it. Even at my lowest point of humiliation, I convinced myself I was on the high road. Why?
Luckily, I have friends. Friends that listen and then ask me the hard questions. The questions are about me. Not questions about the drama. Not questions about the players. Not questions about the next act. Questions about me. Questions about why I do what I do? Questions that have some pretty harsh, even scary, answers. Questions that make me realize that the drama was my whirlwind. A whirlwind to avoid some truth. The bigger the whirlwind, the more I wanted to hide the truth.
Into the whirlwind I went. Each time I pointed elsewhere, I was reminded to point within. Each time I affixed blame, I was reminded that I am exactly where I choose to be. So I went inside. Passed the what, leaped the when, hurdled the who, plowed through the how, and then tackled the why. I found my wounded child there. A wounded child that feared dependence. A wounded child still licking the scars of vulnerability. A wounded child that had an answer in her hands that she did not like. An answer that became the thing avoided. An answer that the whirlwind did its best to destroy but that is the truth. An answer I must live with…regardless of the choices I make.
I accepted what I accepted because I did not want to accept what was unacceptable to me. It was unacceptable to have my children take care of me. It was unacceptable to become my mother. It was unacceptable to be dependent. It was unacceptable to be what I may need to be. It was unacceptable to receive. I accepted the unacceptable to avoid my truth. I grow and am better for it.
Why does it have to hurt so much? Why does it make me sad and just want to sleep? I don’t feel like doing anything but being alone and sad and lonely and that is exactly what I do not need to do but I do it and it hurts and I do it more and it hurts more. I want to blame but every time I do, it ends up being my blame. That is because it IS my blame…my fault…my doing. It would be easier if it was someone else’s fault. Anybody else’s fault. Just not mine. Let me have a scapegoat that let me down. Let me have a selfish bastard that left me all alone. Let me have someone to kill and hurt and blame. Let me have a voodoo doll to stick with pins, cut off limbs, and burn and singe. Let me hurt someone and put it all on them. Noooooooo. I get to own the shit. I get to wallow in the choices I make that hurt others at my expense. I get to know it is my fault and my blame and my doing.
Every time I try to blame someone, it just does not stick. At least, not to them. “I am rubber, you are glue, whatever you say bounces off me and sticks to you.” Here I am. Rubber Glue Man. The boomerang of blame sticks itself right up my ass whenever I throw it towards someone else. Whoop. Wham. Bam. Slam. Right back at me. In me, without even a kiss. Yet I know they blame me and I take that blame as mine. Only a few. A half dozen or so. Maybe I underestimate the extent of my damage but I hope not. I see where I fell short and how they can indeed blame me and I do not blame them for blaming me. How is that for a martyr? Hoisted on my own petard of failure. It sucks on this end but it is right. Blaming others for our shit is short-lived. Shit knows where it came from and, when the shit hits the fan, the only fan of your shit is you. Who cheers for anybody else’s shit? Besides reporters, critics, assholes, weaklings, zealots, lawyers, and plumbers? Your shit is your shit even when it is gift wrapped as a word to the wise. Got something to say about somebody else? Check the mirror for your own zits first.
~ “Blame hates mirrors.” ~
Cliff Notes
Can you ease off a cliff? Seems so. One minute you are there, the next minute, the cliff is far behind or above or wherever the heck it went. Freefalling is like that. Is it free? The true price is back on the cliff. Those that look into the abyss but choose not to jump. It could mean death. It will mean change. It might not fly. It might not be a cliff at all. It might just be a stopping point. The either or place most see.
There is a big settlement at the fork in the road. Many do not take the fork. They settle there. Settle for meeting travelers who happen upon that fork. Travelers that came from other places yet ended up at that fork. For a bit. A respite. The settlers like to be with them. Like to hear of their tales and how they got there and what they did. The settlers look at the cliff again and long. Not for too long though. The settlement needs tending. Yards to mow. Gardens to hoe. Chores to do. Things to stew. Meetings to run. Committees to chair. Lectures to hear. Examples to give. The cliff is for others. Wonderful view though. Would hate to miss out on the view. The travelers pass through. Must be hard on them. Never having the same stuff. Not knowing what the day holds. Having to deal with so much variety. They live like emotional hobos. Bums that take the train openly and ride the rails without even knowing where the rails go. Selfish. Self-centered. Hurtful. The fork in the road is a good place. It is safe and warm and people know your name. It is good to have roots and forks and things. The cliff is for the ones with wings. Those that fly. The grounded ones celebrate them but have to tend to things. Have to do things. Have to…to accept things. Wingless.
Can you ease off a cliff? Easy for some. Harder not to ease off of the cliff. Harder to be with those that get to the fork in the road and then take the fork. Why don’t they stop somewhere else? Why did they come to this fork? Why did they come and remind us about the cliff? Why couldn’t they just have jumped off some other fucking cliff? Why did I invite them to stop anyway? Why did I start to believe the cliff was something to jump off? Why?
There is an echo deep in that canyon. I hear it when I howl. I feel it when I howl. I howl a lot. Feels good for a second afterwards. Just for a second. Sometimes seconds are all I have. Seconds. Sloppy seconds that pass so quickly. So I howl. Wonder if they hear me? Are they right down there? At the bottom of the canyon? Not likely. They are likely far gone. Deeper and deeper and someplace exciting. Someplace with strange animals and dances and sounds and dark ceremonies and dirty things that feel so good there. Someplace I cannot go. Someplace I know. Someplace beyond this fork in the road. If I jump, they will not be there to catch me. They are gone. I cannot see them. Cannot feel them. Wish I did not know them. Let me get back to the fork in the road. The road untraveled. Maybe a bit traveled. Back there. Before the fork in the road. Maybe there is something back there. Something that is not the fork in the road. Something that is easier. Makes me feel good again. Maybe the answer is back there. Maybe I don’t have to take the fork in the road. Maybe I don’t have to jump off the cliff. Maybe.
Howl. Howl. Howl. Hear me? Feel me? Hear me? Please. The cliff is nice. Come back and visit. Please. It gets dark over the canyon. The stars show better over the canyon. The stars at night are big and bright. Deep in the heart of wishing. So long. Howl. So long. Howl.
Wonder when the next traveler will come. Wonder if they are a traveler or someone searching for the fork in the road they will not take. That is what we look for. Our fork. The one we will not take. That is when we settle. Explorers see the fork and take it. Settlers see the fork and settle. Settling is good. Had to explore to get here. To know about the fork. Had to choose to stay. Had to find my way to know when to stop looking. Had to choose not to explore. Had to. Howl. Too tired to howl. Someone might hear me. Shhhhhhhhh. Time to sleep.
~ “When pain becomes our best friend, soon it becomes our only friend.” ~
Genesis
Keep your hands off Genesis. It is mine. It is ours. I need it and you have no right to mess with it. It is written in stone. I heard it as a child and believe just as I did then. It is where we started. Where I started. Where it all started.
It is about Paradise and creation and earth and God and so much more. I feel the heaven that was Eden. Feel it lost. Feel it there just out of reach. I understand the temptation and weakness. All for an apple. All from some snake. One bite and all things would have been different. It helps me realize we are born missing it. Missing what was ours. Missing what we had and what was gifted to us so that everything would be alright all the time.
Leave it alone! It is Genesis for Christ’s sake! It is in the Bible! It is Holy and written and is the started point before the floods and plagues and babbling, begetting, and screwing things up so bad that Jesus had to come and die so we remembered. Genesis starts it all.
Leave it alone. I ain’t sure of the ending. At least let me be sure of the beginning. Back when things were paradise. Back before we could even write. Before we even had to write. Back when we were all good and there was enough for all of us. Even if all of us was only two.
Only two. Comfortable. Naked. Warm. Then we had to eat the apple. We just had to mess it all up. We just had to have things our way. We just had to want more than we had. Leave Genesis alone. Haven’t we messed things up enough? Let me have my bible stories.
Leave my Eden alone! You weren’t even there, monkey people. You came from someplace else remember? Leave my roots alone! They aren’t even yours. You don’t have roots. You have tadpoles and fish and evolution. You evolved. I was created.
Leave my creation alone!
~ “Cynics question everything. Idiots question everything. Any questions? Yeah, me, too.” ~
Love, American Style
Please. Please, don’t leave me. I can’t exist without you. I am worthless without you. I think I had a life before you but that does not matter. With you, I soar. You open doors I cannot open by myself. The people in my life are here because of you. Thanks to you, I am better for them. Can do more for them. I am happier and healthier and more me with you. Please. I need you so very much.
Think of all the joy. I shared and gave and danced and sang and it was all because of you. I did all I could. Did everything you said and needed. Just like I promised and just like I knew would keep you in my life. It was all about you. I know that now. Please. If you leave, I am nothing. There is no place to go and nothing to do if I do not have you. Please. Without you, I will die. I will literally die.
I did not see this coming. I never thought you would leave. I thought you would be here forever and ever and ever. When you first came to me, it was Magick. I did not understand you but I like what you did for me. Soon, I loved you. I loved you so much and went where you were to be around you and know you more and more. I loved you and we were so good together. People knew I was there and you were with me and that they would be better because you were with me. Now, you and I are inseparable. I do not know where I end and you begin. I am as much you as I am me.
Please. Stay. I will change. I will be even better. Do you need me to cook? To clean ditches? To kneel? To open and whore myself to others for you? Do you need me to beg? I will do that. I need you that much. Please. Just don’t leave me alone. I am nothing without you and I will die. Please!
She handed the letter to the young girl and then watched as she read it. It was time for her to understand. It was time for her to have the questions she asked answered. She was old enough to understand and she deserved to know the truth.
The child looked up at her and asked, “Is this really true, Mommy?”
The Mother merely shook her head to show that it was.
“You didn’t just make this up, did you, Mommy?”
“No, child. It is true. Sometimes I wish it was not but it is very, very true.”
The child summed it up well. “Wow”
There was silence for a while and then the child spoke again.
“People really loved money this much, Mommy?”
“Yes, My child. They did. Back before the fall.”
The child then asked the question of all questions.
“Why, Mommy?”
The Mother was silent. She had expected the question and had a bit of an answer. An answer she did not like
and that was short of the mark somehow. She was about to answer when the child asked a question that helped
the Mother understand a piece of the puzzle that eluded her for a long time.
“Wasn’t it just a resource? Like other resources, Mommy?’
The Mother had that AHA she needed and wished for that simplified things. She spoke from a place she remembered and honored. “No, child. For some, it was the one ring to rule them all.”
The child understood and accepted. The child then asked another question. The question of the Feminine and the Nurturers.
“How did they survive, Mommy?”
The Mother kissed her sweet child’s head and answered. “Some of them didn’t. Enough of us did though.”
~ “I vote for Peace. I vote for Love.” ~
Page Turner
A glance at the photo flashed the memory to fullness. She smiled one of her “please notice me” smiles that sucked all eyes to her pitiful need for attention. A waste. Most would have noticed her anyway, just in a good way instead of a who is that asshole kinda way. So be it. Ruined the photo but helped me realize why she was out the picture book of my life. Those beautiful teeth were tough to swallow. I got fed up and left for greener pastures. Hope she is happy. I turned the page and continued the search.
Three pages later, a face in the background was the face in my foreground. Thirty years ago? Would I know her at the restaurant? Would she know me? Who were we now and would who we were then be enough to sustain us until we knew? Was she still sweet and cute and take good notes? Did she still like French Fries more than any other lunch except on pizza day? Did she still do that blowing the bangs out of her face thing that made it difficult for me to focus? Would desert be what I hoped like it was yesterday all over again? It was only Thursday night but felt like Saturday and this Saturday was three decades overdue.
Polo where Hai Karate used to go, I headed to the restaurant to dine with yesterday’s why didn’t I. Damn. My palms were already sweating. Come on, Dude. Get a grip. It’s only dinner. Don’t blow it before she even has a chance to see what she missed out on all these years.
~ “Hindsight may be too little, too late.” ~
The People In The Woods
“Mommy, who are those people living in our woods?” The child was breathing hard as he spit the words from the mouth before the door even closed into the foyer. His feet slid across the marble in excitement.
“Whoa there, big fella”, she said with a smile. “What people?”
He reported of his adventure as dutiful as any 10 year old and she listened, surprised he was so far out in the woods on their estate that he encountered the People of the Woods. She remembered when she first discovered them. It had been so long since she even thought of them. His story brought back the memory of her first encounter and how her father explained to her just as she was about to explain to her son. She knew to tell the tale in such a way to inform yet caution about those wonderful but potentially dangerous people.
‘Well, son, let’s head back to the kitchen and I will tell you about them over some chocolate chip cookies.’ He was off in a flash towards the back of the house to the day kitchen. She gave him a cookie to munch, placed a few more on a plate, and headed to the veranda. It was such a nice day and the fountains were lovely. A perfect place to share the history of the people that used to live on the property that was her son’s home and would be his and his childrens’ home long after she was in heaven.
He listened as she told of his father’s father’s father and even many fathers before that and where they have lived on a small piece of land way across town. She bit back her anger when she informed the munching cookie boy how there was so little room and how the people that owned the land charged them to live there and kept them on their tiny piece. It was her husband’s people that headed across town and found this wonderful house and acres of land and a few people living in house big enough for hundreds.
“It may seem silly, son, but there were a few people in the house but most of the rooms were empty. They had no decorating sense. Windows were left open even on the hot days because they did not have air conditioning. I heard they sat and told stories in what is now the library, used only candles since they did not have electricity, and that none of them had jobs or even paid taxes.”
“Really, Mommy? You are not making this up?”
She smiled and assured her it was the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.
“Well, your Daddy’s Daddy’s Daddy befriended them and decided there was enough room for all his family in addition to the few people already living in this great big house so he went back across town and they all moved here.”
“It wasn’t easy, son. They had to assign rooms, put up walls, and reorganize just about everything. Pretty soon, we added the West Wing, put up the beautiful fence with the Eagles on it, and had to ensure the people next door did not try to come and move into the house. It was a lot of work.”
The cookies were long gone but her son seemed not to notice. “What about the people in the woods? Why are they down there?”
“Well, son, they were in the way. We would put in a kitchen and they wanted to grill in there. We put in the pool and they would try and take a bath there. They walked into rooms without knocking. They got mad if we had a family gathering and did not invite them. It got pretty nasty. There were even some fights.”
She smiled. “Your Daddy is a strong man and his Daddy was strong and his Daddy was, too. Just like you are and you will be even stronger, son. Pretty soon, we had enough of the rudeness and crude ways so we gave them all that property in the area in the woods and told them they could just have it. After all, just because they are different than us doesn’t mean they don’t deserve a place to live. Right, son?”
He agreed and headed into the day for more adventures. She smiled as he headed across the yard to the playground. “Be careful, son. No more going to see those people in the woods. Alright?”
~ “My Y chromosome has a weak grip.” ~
The Dancers
Once upon a time, there were two dancers. One danced with abandon and the other swirled inside but move cautiously around the dance floor when she dared to venture there. Fate had the two meet and the whirling dervish answered questions of the quiet one as she probed about where he learned to dance.
He fox-trotted alone for her to see while she asked.
“Did you have lessons?”
He told of the few lessons and sang of how much he learned from knowing partners and dances attended then and savored now. The feet moved sweetly and surely as he shared for the movement honored those sweet partners now dancing elsewhere.
“Did you have formal instruction? Arthur Murray? Those type places?”
The dancer smiled and said he had attended a few Arthur Murray sessions with others and enjoyed the evening but learned better in dance halls rather than class rooms. He switched to the waltz as music he heard and she began to sense played for them.
She asked more questions and shared about her dancing and how much she had loved it. She was cautious though for one thing she used to loved, to dip, now seemed almost undoable. The muscles for the dip seemed to have lost form and function and this made her wonder if she was still a dancer.
He smiled and said, “Dance without dipping. Who cares? Just enjoy the dance.”
They talked and shared and spoke of dancing, dancing around as they wondered if they would dance together someday soon.
After a while, she asked him. “Will you teach me to dance?”
He moved to her and took her hand in his. She rose and followed him to the dance floor. She stopped just prior to stepping onto the floor. “I am afraid I cannot dip. What if I can’t dip anymore?” Her eyes were downcast as she added, “You dance differently than I do and I will likely slow you down.”
He stepped onto the floor and opened his arms. She stepped into him.
“I lead. You follow.”
She did as he said and they danced. Their movements were slow at first as they felt the energy of the other and learned to sway in unison. Soon, they danced around the floor like two kids. She felt the beauty of the dance once more.
In the days ahead, she heard the music as she worked and when she drove to places and did the things that were her life. Alone but not alone anymore. The dancer and the Teacher was in her head and her ears as well as her heart. The very feel of her heartbeat made her bolder.
She arranged outings so others could see them dance. The first one just a small function with some new friends with a second to follow a week later….the day before a private dance so others could see the two move across their own floor.
The first function was wonderful. The two waltzed around while others drank coffee and talked. Both enjoyed the movement as well as the reserved audience. Then they went to a private room and danced with abandon. There was Rock and lots of Roll. The two twisted and jitterbugged like they had been partnered for decades instead of just days. The clock turned midnight and they danced into the day. Loving the dance until they fell into each other’s arms and slept….spent and joyous.
The next day dawned and he still whirled inside, savoring the sweetness of the night before and the days ahead. She smiled but moved to the edge of the dance floor and stood. He danced slowly around her and waited to see if she would rejoin him on the floor.
“I never really dipped last night. Why?”
He smiled and said, “Maybe you will dip next time. Goodness though, you jitterbugged like a pro, girl.” He twirled and smiled to the Cosmos.
She asked again about the dip and lack of the dip but stopped asking for he was dancing in wait on the floor.
“We didn’t tango last night.”
He smiled as he danced slowly by himself, “Yeppers. You are right about that.”
“Why didn’t you tango with me?”
He danced and talked of the Twist and the Lindy they had mastered.
She re-worded but repeated the question. “I need you to explain why you did not tango with me.”
He danced quietly and waited for her to remember the moves and seek to learn new ones.
She continued. “You did not answer me. You did not tango with me. That makes me wonder if I am a dancer. That makes me wonder why you would not care to tango with me. That makes me wonder if you really want to dance with me at all. That makes me really wonder.”
His silence angered her. His smile of joy frustrated her. His continued dancing inside of himself made her want him to stop and talk about the tango and explain.
He did not. She headed off to be by herself, wondering why she had danced with him in the first place. She wanted to tango. The Tango is the dance. The Tango is the proof that you can dance. She needed time to think and she took it.
He let her. Dancing around the floor, hoping she would dance again soon. She was such a good dancer. He thought of her and whirled anew. One-Two-Three. One-Two-Three.
~ “Sing…..off-key, on-key, new key……just sing.” ~
Books and Stuff
Books matter. Maybe that is why I write them. It surely is why I read them. Here are some that mattered enough for me share words about their words with you. In some cases, it is just one line. That is magic. To write one line and have it matter. Have it last. Have it spur thoughts, discussions, and so much more. To be or not to be might not be a question after all. Maybe is it is just a good line.
Who Is John Galt?
It is on my top ten list of all-time greatest books. I revisit it every few years and felt the call of it, gently, a few weeks ago. First I had to remember it and how much I changed since last time its words wrapped me in the cocoon of its message. The anticipation felt good but there were reunion concerns. Would it be as good? Were we still connected? Would it disappoint the person I became since last we met?
Eighteen pages into the thousand and I have the answer. Its power grows. Its message clearer and more applicable as its characters go about life in a crumbling world with processes that created the destruction. Behaviors range from naïve to ignorant. The desperate and the hopeless look to the clueless and wonder when and how and even it. The book is about today and tomorrow and the day after.
I shall read it again. From the inside this time.
~ “Hindsight is 20/20,”
“Insight sees beyond what you can see coming.” ~
Atlas Insights
More quotables from "Atlas Shrugged"
"...it's not that I don't suffer, it's that I know the unimportance of suffering, I know that pain is to be fought and thrown aside, not to be accepted as part of one's soul and as a permanent scar across one's view of existence."
"....Atlantis is hidden from men by nothing but an optical illusion...."
"...To be a lamppost and stand holding a lantern until dawn--which is the only work your world relegates me to and the only work it's going to get."
"Then things will improve." "How?" Who will improve them?"... "What people?"...The people who'll go on consuming more than they produce?....."Who is the guiltiest person in this room?"......"I am.".....He had cursed these looters for their stubborn blindness? It was he that made it possible. From the very first extortion he had accepted, from the first directive he obeyed, he had given them cause to believe reality was a thing to be cheated, that one could demand the irrational and someone somehow would provide it."
~ “Rosebud survived the fire and consumed him forever.” ~
Knock, Knock
In the cage, the teeth gnash, the chains rattle, and the beast roars. The male rips apart all he knew of himself and ways and means. Words from "Atlas Shrugged" encourage...the truth of what comes. Knock, Knock.
"If you fail, as man have failed in their quest for a vision that should have been possible, yet has remained forever beyond their reach-if, like them, you come to think that one's highest are not to be attained and one's greatest vision is not to be made real-don't damn this earth, as they did, don't damn this existence. You have seen the Atlantis they were seeking, it is here, it exists-but one must enter it naked and alone, with no rags from the falsehood of centuries, with the purest clarity of mind-not an innocent heart, but that which is rarer: an intransigent mind- as one's only possession and key. You will not enter it until you learn that you do not need to convince or to conquer the world. When you learn it, you will see that through all the years of your struggle, nothing had barred you from Atlantis and there were no chains to hold you, except the chains you were willing to wear. Through all those years, that which you most wished to win was waiting for you...waiting as unremittingly as you were fighting, as passionately, as desperately-but with a greater certainty than yours. Go out to continue your struggle. Go on carrying unchosen burdens, taking undeserved punishment and believing that justice can be served by the offer of your own spirit to the most unjust of tortures. But in your worst and darkest moments, remember that you have seen another kind of world. Remember that you can reach it whenever you choose to see. Remember that it will be waiting for you and that it's real, it's possible-it's yours." (Atlas Shrugged)
Mama take this badge from me
I can't use it anymore
It's getting dark too dark to see
Feels like I'm knockin' on heaven's door
Knock-knock-knockin' on heaven's door
Knock-knock-knockin' on heaven's door
Knock-knock-knockin' on heaven's door
Knock-knock-knockin' on heaven's door
Mama put my guns in the ground
I can't shoot them anymore
That cold black cloud is comin' down
Feels like I'm knockin' on heaven's door
Knock-knock-knockin' on heaven's door
Knock-knock-knockin' on heaven's door
Knock-knock-knockin' on heaven's door
Knock-knock-knockin' on heaven's door
"You just better start sniffin' your own
rank subjugation jack 'cause it's just you
against your tattered libido, the bank and
the mortician, forever man and it wouldn't
be lucky if you could get out of life alive"*
Knock-knock-knockin' on heaven's door
(Bob Dylan/Guns and Roses)
~ “Other people said some mighty smart stuff. You can quote me on that.” ~
Polar Heroes
Hank Rearden and Francisco d’Anconia
Which is more valuable--the dollar you earned or the dollar you were given? How do you measure worth? What is the price of your soul?
Hank Rearden and Francisco d”Antonia are polar opposites yet struggle to answer these questions and even a deeper one that is hardwired in their primal instincts. Am I doing the right thing?
Francisco was born into wealth. The d’Antonia name bestowed by blood and heritage. His legacy to be all that was plus more just as his father and his father and more. He inherited fortune, name, and honor. He was living synergy of heritage. All that was and more…from first breath to first step to first mine…he was born to be the next in line and forge forward as the line grew.
Hank Rearden was self-made. There is little mention of his father while Sebastian d’Antonia and Nate Taggart are prominent features in this tale of change to all that was. Hank Reardon is a first in his line for he changed his line. He formed the business. He forged the metal that bore his name just as the offspring of d’Antonia and Taggart did theirs. Hank made his fortune. Francisco increased his.
The vultures circled each…carrion feed regardless of the source of the food.
~ “Ravaging our self is growth. Ravaging others is ravaging others.” ~
Baby, Let’s Play House
A book about Elvis. Those that know me would not be surprised that I read it. Elvis is a big part of my life. His music is a place of solace for me. A touchstone. My Masters Thesis and Doctoral dissertations were completed on topics related to Elvis. (True stuff, boys and girls.) I take my Elvis seriously.
This book is by a woman, Alanna Nash, that interviewed the women that moved in and out of Elvis’ life. She cited hundreds of sources and the work clearly reflected a well-researched project about a heretofore already well-documented life. It was an alright read.
As I read it though, something nagged at me. I was not surprised that there was very little new information since my reading about Elvis has been extensive. There was something else. I almost quit reading yet continued more to understand what I felt about the work than to read the book itself.
I finished the book and then it came to me. The author never really got out of the way. I did not feel Elvis in the book. It was a book about someone talking about Elvis. Someone that talked about what others said about the main subject of the book. The book was flat.
If you want to read about Elvis and feel him in the words, read Peter Guralnick’s two-volume story of his life. “Last Train To Memphis” and “Careless Love”. Guralnick captured the man and his story in a way that “Baby, Let’s Play House” does not. That what was missing. The man.
If you want to feel Elvis, listen to his music. “That’s Someone You’ll Never Forget”, “Tomorrow Never Comes”, “They Remind Me Too Much Of You”, “Stranger In My Own Home Town”, or even some of the more familiar treats. Watch the ’68 Special and watch a man reclaim his almost lost soul. Elvis’s gift is his music. A gift that outlasted him because he shared it with us.
~ “He put on his jumpsuit and pretended he understood what happened as he did what he needed to feel like he mattered. Heroes are like that.” ~
Under The Dome
Just finished Stephen King’s “Under The Dome”. Nice to have him back. King is one of my favorite authors. A storyteller with darkness and light inside of his soul. “The Stand’ is epic. “Different Seasons” is when I truly saw his gift in full display. King is human. Some of his works are just shy of his talent yet he shows his soul, with all the blemishes. That is one of the reasons I like him. He writes…sometimes it is good….sometimes it is great…….it is always him.
You can read his work and feel him. I suspect he looks back at some things and wonders why he thought they were good at the time. He likely also looks back at some things he wrote and is stunned they really came from him. That is writing. We reach into our soul, shoot for the target, and aim for the bulls-eye each time.
“Under the Dome” is epic is size and scale. He begins at his best. He creates people that move to life quickly in a place that is felt as sure as the living room of the house where you were raised. He spins the tale and has you caring about those people and that place.
Along the way, I wondered if he would pull it off. The story was good throughout. His skills were there throughout. The book weighs in at over 1000 pages and the story goes from routine to bizarre and back again with the ease of flowing water. As I moved to the end, I wondered if he would achieve it. The message, that is. The bulls-eye he aimed for with such a large arrow and such a human heart.
He ended the story and it was good. Then King did something wonderful. In two pages, he shared his story about the story. That is when he hit my mark. He hit the bulls-eye that my writer shoots for in each poem….each story…..each word. He shared his birthing process and I saw the beauty and depth that is the true story of “Under The Dome”.
King has to write. Has to push what he feels right to the light. He has to use his gift to share messages he gets and lives and tries to share with others. He has to stand true to his craft and his calling and hope that it is enough. “Under The Dome” achieved that for me. Thanks, Stephen King. Write on.
~ “I was crazy before I was a writer. Now that I am a writer, I am even crazier.” ~
Wild Animus
Obsession. A calling blurred by drugs, indulgence, and self-indulgence. The book “Wild Animus” is painful to read. It speaks from a place of primal and blurs from a place of delusion. Yet, it drew me. It waited for years. It was handed out free somewhere and I remember getting it and putting it away…as if I was not ready. That turned out to be true. Then it surfaced again on a library shelf and it was time.
The main character disturbed me. There was more of me in him than I liked to see. He was drawn to a path of spiritually that moved from a calling to something dark and worse than selfish. He blew smoke up his own ass and called it insight.
I understood him, then feared for him, then pitied him, and then felt sorry for him. The book was disturbing and for that I am grateful. Sometimes we need to be disturbed. He felt connected to something very special and was. Somewhere along the way he disconnected from everything else to feel that connection.
Thanks for the reminder, Animus. Well timed.
~ “Spirituality can be some spooky shit.” ~
Zen And The Art Of Motorcycle Maintenance
I just read it again for the first time. If I read it before, I guess I just didn’t get it before. Maybe I really didn’t read it before. Read it and get it now. Like that he was looking for himself. Got that he was so distanced from who he was that he was his own ghost. Oh yeah, boys and girls, I get that. Liked that he just kept peeling things back. Back to the why and then that why and on and on. He cruised wherever while staying right in his own soul. He went everywhere and smelt his own shit everywhere he went.
The very reading of the book was different this time. It oozed. Went slow as heck. Like an everlasting gobstopper of a story that I digested a few pages here and a few more there. Took a long time to read it and didn’t really care. Guess that means I didn’t take a long time. Didn’t take a short time. Took the right time. Meandered as he did. Sometimes pausing to think. Sometimes not thinking at all. Touching it and not even reading it at times. Then the last few days, the pace accelerated. No destination. No goal. No deadlines. Just felt right to read and read some more and read some more.
The book is only a day behind me. Yet it feels like I had to read it now and question back then. Back when I could have done even more with the message. Back before I lived the message before I really even understood or heard the message. Made me ask myself things. About who I was back when I was that guy on the start of this whole thing. Was I that young? That naïve? That sure? I felt that and did not go to regret or what ifs. Just felt it. Saw it as sorta of a contemporary how to. A Hippie Walden. A search for self that has us face our past and accept our now. All part of the rewiring. All part of who I am now. Thoreau knew. There to be seen in a borrowed cabin where he owned his truth. Whitman knew. There in verse after verse of leaves. Rand knew. There where they wondered who John Galt was. Quinn knew. There in the cage with a really smart Primate. This book knew. There to be seen.
Made me wonder. Where have all the Flower Children gone? Did I read this book back when it and me were newer and just not get it? Did I not read it? Was it too much for me to handle? Was it too far out of my box? It was a best seller. It is a cult classic of sorts. Lots of people read it. Who got it? Who did anything about it? Interesting to see old answers there for the taking.
I am glad I read it now. Makes it a bit easier to be me today. I don’t have a motorcycle. Likely won’t. I am where I need to be and travel the roads of my soul wherever I am. Zen is cool. Soul Maintenance is the art I master a bit more every day. This book was a good tune up. Maybe I am running pretty well right now. Feels good. Vrooooom. Vroooom. Beep, beep. Pedal to the Metal. Vrooooom. Vroooom.
~ “My resistance to change changed.” ~
Happiness
“This is the trouble with all happiness—all of it is built on top of something that men want.” (From Little Bee…by Chris Cleave)
Another one of those sentences. One that sprang from the page and begat a story unto itself. It wormed itself inside of me and sprouted a festival of thoughts. A treat of words that fed me and I didn’t even know I was hungry.
Would we sell our happiness? Sell our home to get to the oil under our feet? Sell our soul to get to the oil under someone else’s feet? Is happiness something we sell for what we want? What is the price of our happiness? What is the cost of our wants?
Oil. Diamonds. Coal. Railways. Parking lots. Casinos. Animal Farms. One urban man’s renewal is another’s plight. What price do we pay when others pay the price? What price do we pay when we turn the seeing eye and call it blind? What price is right for our soul?
My happiness is priceless. It is above my feet…and all around me. I have what I need, know what I want, and learn how much more less is every day. You can’t buy my secret. You already own it. We all do.
~ “My word well taps itself whenever the thirst needs to be quenched.’ ~
Yellow Sticky Note
“A man is sitting on a bed on which a dead woman lies.” Just one line. On a yellow sticky note. He wrote the note. He put the note on his desk. He let it sit there. He did not understand what it meant. He did not understand what drove the words and why they sat there. A message? A code? A quirk? So they sat there. The man. The note. The clue right alongside of the cluelessness. He saw it. Ignored it. Pretended it wasn’t there. Pretended it wasn’t anything. Pretended it wasn’t important. Pretended it would pass.
It stayed. He went about life and the note waited. Until he saw it. Really saw it. Then one day he knew. The man sitting on the bed was Rusty Sabich. It was Rusty in the note. Who was the woman? Why was the man just sitting there? Where had Rusty been in the twenty plus years since he was acquitted? It was Rusty and that took the sentence on the yellow sticky and turned it into a book.
The man with the yellow sticky note on his desk was Scott Turow. Rusty is the character in his first published, bestselling book, “Presumed Innocent”. Harrison Ford played Rusty in the movie. Scott went on to write other books. His first however remained silent. At least he thought it did. It loomed on a yellow sticky note until he realized it had more to say.
Maybe Scott just made up the story of the sticky note. The writer in me believes the note is real. That is how the Muses work. They let us think we are done. They wait and then they let us realize we have more to do. That is how the process works. When we let it. When we let the yellow stickies stick around and gnaw at us until we see.
~ “Fiction only works when it feels true.” ~
Word Craft
“It is not an illness you can cure yourself of by standing up and letting the big red cinema seat fold itself up behind you.” One sentence. The book is as good as that sentence. That is word craft.
Artistry is like that. Less is more. Our readers will fill in the details more often than we suspect, less often than we let them, and better than we can. There is a collective consciousness. Great writers, speakers, leaders, communicators, teachers….the truly great know that and let things flow to that collective consciousness as well as from it.
One sentence and it touched stories within me and made the story being read a piece of my own knowing. We remember what we feel. That sentence had me feel. It made me want to feel more, read more, understand more. Words invited me to remember and learn….I went.
~ “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times….
it was the beginning of a story and became a story all by itself.” ~
Outside-In
The words of transition. That place where the old was owned and became the thing that shaped the new. These missives are from the time of introspection that begat changes deep and forever.
Root of All Evil
Negative is much more obvious. It shows in words, rationalizations, news, fears, and more. I feel the negative and take it in. Everything for a reason. So I accept that the negative shows more now for a reason. A reason I am to understand and rise above. It is like bathing in sewage and sometimes it stinks and makes it hard to remember this is cleansing. This is the light showing the dark and the dark scrambling from the exposure.
Never is always wrong and always is never right. They show the closed areas of the mind and the heart. Fears abound and I hold each one in my hand. Hold it like a Mother would a child for the fear is my child. It is what I created and let move into the world through me. Now I must claim it, know it, and own it…and ultimately kill it. I must kill it for it is but a mask hiding my truth. The fear is not alive. It just feels alive and feels safe and known and easy to defend and explain and more. It is easier to accept the fear and turn it to blame, excuse, anger, hate, or whatever is needed to keep it alive and part of my truth hidden.
Fear takes many forms. I saw one recently on the Today Show when they taped over the “private” parts of paintings of nudes the staff did. They painted to experience something new. To show that they are open to even paint nudes. Such progress. The jokes and looks were juvenile. The tape on the finished paintings honored some fear about the breasts and genitalia. It saddened me. So I went to that sadness and peeled it back.
The negative is much more obvious now. We live surrounded in it. The economy collapses and panic bubbles just under the surface of hope that some feel. Money is tainted. Those that handle it and mishandle it are questioned. The emphasis on massive accumulation is reviewed. Money is less than it was in value and how much we value it. The so-called root of all evil is held to the light of day and stints because of what we accepted to have more and more of it. All that and now we paint and then tape over genitalia. Where, oh where, has my root of all evil gone? Oh where, oh where, can it be?
~ “Your neighbors have what they earned. So do you.” ~
Negativity Hungers
Negativity turns on itself in hunger. We have spoiled it. Fed it so long that is got fat and lazy. It just sat while we ensured it could wallow and indulge and consume. It does not like that we are not its whore anymore. It was our pimp and we did everything it wanted and more. We were addicted to it and it thrived.
It is not happy right now. So it feeds on itself. It does not believe we can survive without negativity. It saw us try and fail so many times before...it is angry but it still believes we will return to get a fix. Meanwhile, it feeds on itself and waits.
Pimp Daddy is sick and some wait in fear, hoping we have not angered him too much with our claim to be healing. I see him in the chat rooms as folks talk about the price of their medicines and making runs to Mexico for the many meds they need. I see him in the news, his favorite hangout, but he sounds much weaker...almost panicked. I felt him on the walk this morning as I focused on some weakness in others and became judge...just as he would want.
Negativity hungers...and I smile as it finds less and less that just indulge it.
~ “I have a friend that really, really hates me because I change too much.
I used to change too much but I am different now.” ~
Drum Roll Please
Doldrums, hum drum, beat drum, dum dum.
Who’s the sucker now?
On a stick. At the fair. Just ain’t fair. Pay the fare. Connections included. Transfer. Press on. Press hard. Pressure. Press her. Press him. Just don’t press them. Do not press them. Do not pass go. Do not collect $200.
It’s all in the game. The game of luck. A book from the page of the love. Gotta love that. Who loves ya, Baby? Who’s the sucker now? How long does it take to get to the center? Journey to the center. Stay centered.
Round and round you go. Where you stop nobody knows.
Who knows? You do. Who do? You do. Voodoo.
Pins and needles. Sew. So-So. Rip it up. Gonna shake it. Gonna hurl. Hurl. Too many suckers can made you sick. Sick of it all. Too sick to pen. To pen or not to pen? Pen. It will help. Pen. Raw and savage and angry and jammed and opened and closed and loved.
You are blessed so curse if you must. The curse will not stick. The cursing does not matter. Who do voodoo? Who cares? The curses stick when you hold onto them. Self-adhesive. Peel back and strip. Peel back and come back and be back and who is that in the back room with the Auntie and the Uncle that might be the Uncle and the Auntie.
Touch and heal. Heal and touch. Heel and toe. Heel and sit. Sit and roll over. Here is a drink. Lap it up. Dum-dum. Dum-De-Dum-Dum-DA.
~ “Some lines are complete stories…some stories are barely lines.” ~
Questions
Where do you bare your soul?
How naked are you?
How much truth do you share?
Who cares?
Where and When?
What questions do you answer and then leave unasked?
What answers do you question and then leave unanswered?
How deep is really deep?
How deep is too deep?
Is there too deep?
When does down start being up again?
When does up start being down?
Is that the circle of life or are you the lying king?
Who wrote the book of love?
I wonder, wonder, wonder, wonder who?
Who wrote the book?
~ “I didn’t know what to write……I just knew to write.” ~
Worth
How do you measure your worth?
What do you have to help others?
What do you need to live?
Where are your priorities each day and how do you spend your time?
What do your choices cost?
How much is your time worth?
What is your value to the world?
What makes you feel good about yourself?
How much is enough for you?
When does what others need become your issue?
What do you do with your living?
What do you do to be your best each day?
Are you strong enough to do what is right and true?
~ “The voices is my head don’t listen to me much anymore.
Just as well. They say shit I used to be afraid to even think.” ~
Ego
The ego is what you are. It is the foundation of self. All our experiences shape the ego. Your parents mold it as they guide and nurture you to both what is good as well as bad. School lessons are much more than reading and writing as we learn how to and even if we fit in. Playmates unfold us by linking us with people of tribe, Years move us to work and travel and life and the ego takes it all in.
We are nothing without the ego. It drives us to please so that it suckles the sweetness of success as it defines it. The ego links us to those who stroke it in ways it needs. The ego sparks action when it hungers and even more action when it is fed. It is the measure of our success within for when it radiates, we shine, and when it darkens, we simmer.
The ego is self. Inflate it and the self-overshadows other, more important things. Deflate it and it diverts all resources to damage control. The ego is energy and fuels us. Just as with energy, harnessed for good, it is a force for progress. Unleashed in the wrong ways and there is devastation as well as danger. For energy sparks motion and should it spark the wrong motion, the danger begins.
The danger is that the ego shifts from means to end. It hears praise for a job well done and eats the credit without sharing. The ego begins to believe what it sees through self-eyes. The people around are there to be with it. The belongings were earned and kept for self. The ego looks in the mirror and sees the reflection of perfection. The image of what is important. The ego takes over and looks to self as if self is the center of all.
The ego is important for it is our inner self. However, the inner self must be made to see in bigger picture. It must be linked to the larger purpose. It must realize it is part of the Collective Consciousness. All that it is, strength, power, talent, ability, are there for the good of all. All that it is serves for the others and receives the benefit of all the other egos. All the other self’s. At least the ones wise enough to offer what they are to the good of all.
Check the ego at the door but use it as the higher doorways open. It is what we are and it shapes the contribution to the good of all.
The here and the now illustrate the power of the ego if used properly and highlights the danger if it should look inward again. In the days of the ego, words are taken to heart as heady stuff. The success of the business fuels the arrogance of self-importance. Before freeing the ego to serve, successes on all levels are thought as made possible by self.
When the ego is known and checked, it is all that it was but more so. The ego sees the strength and talent that was given and how it grows. Learning feeds the ego. Compliments feed the ego. Love feeds the ego. Successes do as well and the bounty that amasses brings pride to the ego. That is the same but what is done with the fuel is far, far different.
The ego smiles for all that it is and all that happens if for others. Serving others is the reward. Alone, it would think it was responsible for the changes and the success. Soon, it would have thought the power to change even the weather. Arrogance is like that.
When serving, the ego grows more as self by understanding that self must be linked in service to the bigger picture. The Collective Consciousness needs egos that can grow and prosper without being corrupted by the growth and prosperity that the egos fuel.
The self is important but will move on. To other realms. To different realities. It will maintain the important but be better. Expanded by all it brings and what it becomes in the next level. If focused on the ego in the here and now, it stifles and does not expand.
For me, the stifling is over. Evolution is underway. Service is the reward and makes the ego stronger but only for more power to help and serve.
~ “My resistance to change changed me.” ~
Faith
Faith. To accept. To believe without seeing. Faith is a staple of religions and spirituality since much of what we are to believe cannot and will not be seen. Faith is essential while faith is also dangerous. Blind faith can have us accept things without question and faith without question is as unwise as demanding answers to things that will not be seen.
How then does one find the balance? Between intelligent inquiry and stubborn defiance? It lays within each person.
Faith is founded early for most humans in the form of organized religion. Organized religions that serve a very important purpose but can be a major deterrent to spirituality. We are taught of faith there but told to believe versus decide. Humans need organized religion to introduce them to spirituality and then need to evolve beyond and explore spirituality versus religion. If spirituality takes you to religion, that is the right journey. If religion does not take you to spirituality, it is not. The irony is that if we question in faith, the answers may bring us back to where we began. An affirmation. A confirmation. If we do not question in faith, we can be religious yet very, very far from spirituality.
Faith begins with questions. It can end with questions as well and that is why many do not question. They accept. Just because.
Yet some see signs of spirituality in everything and that becomes a drain. Sometimes a fly landing on your arm when you meditate is not a cause to reflect on the sanctity of life and the wonders of nature. Sometimes it is just a fly landing on your arm.
Accept that everything happens for a reason yet do not look for the reason everything happens. Signs are everywhere but not everything is a sign. Faith is accepting that things happen for a reason. Faith is trusting yet checking the facts. Trust is not blind. Faith is the corrective lenses to see what is there all along.
Therein lays the link between humanity and Divine. Faith is not defining the Divine but accepting the Divine and letting It define itself. Once that link is established, the sight is clearer. It penetrates realms we cannot see without faith to introduce us to the Divine.
Mankind is arrogant. Arrogant is that it tries to define things according to human standards. Arrogant in that it interprets things from other realms according to the one it knows. Arrogant in that it feels it is the highest power and therefore dares to define the Higher Power in its image. Arrogance confirmed in that man decided that God made man in His image. Man said God looks just like us. Hope that pleases him.
Faith is believing and learning and growing. Faith is not arrogant. Faith is wise.
~ “Instincts are the muscles of faith and need to be worked daily.” ~
Addictions
Everyone’s addicted to something. The ones in the programs have it easier. They’ve named their demon. Hope they got it right. Did the gamblers in that anon bet on the right addiction? Did the Alcoholics really cork their demon in the bottle they left on the bar? Did the crack heads crack the right code? Did they pick the right “…I am a” fill in the blank? I’m cheering for them. Go, team, go! Rah, Rah, and shish ka bob. They’re heroes. Every one of them that stepped up to the mirror and said I got issues and I can’t fix them by myself. Heroes. All of them. I hope they got it right, get right, and stay right.
The ones in the programs are working on getting better. Quite frankly, that is enough. Working on getting better means not getting any worse and sometimes that’s a damn victory. The twelve steps are fucking mountains. Each one of them. I speak from experience. It’s a long climb up from the highs. You gotta know how low you really are just to get started. Mountains. Twelve of them, each an Everest without any rest. This shit ain’t for the faint of heart. It keeps you outta trouble though. When you are busy climbing mountains and facing demons, there ain’t a hell of a lot of time left to screw up other people’s stuff. The folks in the programs are fixing what they broke and doing the best they can. One day at a time.
Then there are the addicts that know they addicts but are too busy being addicts to do any healing. You know them. Various degrees of denial, stupidity, arrogance, and whatever the hell else you call bad choices about shit that will kill ya if you don’t quit. These are the boozers, shooters, and tweakers. So far gone they think they are going make it somehow when their world shrinks to nothing but moments between highs. They limbo in their own hell finding out new ways to answer the question how low can you go. Those folks are not in denial. They’re in fucking pain. They’re in the trap and they are pretty much useless to themselves and harmless to the rest of us. Sure, they lie, cheat, and steal to feed their habit. That’s life with you’re in that death trap. I’m cheering for them though. Hoping they wake up before the big dirt nap closes the lid on their pain. If not, they are pretty much screwed just like the folks that don’t even accept they are addicts.
That’s everybody else. The folks in the programs know and do. The addicts in the addictions know and do, too. They just know it’s wrong and they do it anyway. Everybody else doesn’t even know they are addicts. I hope they wake up before we all end up in their nightmare. The boozers, shooters, and tweakers are nothing compared to what the other folks can do. The ones that don’t even know they are addicted. Most of them have approved addictions. Addictions that are encouraged and advertised and rewarded. Those fuckers could kill us all.
Drunk with power. High on having stuff. All dockered up and beaming around suburbia like their shit doesn’t stink. They can afford it. Sometimes they can but they have good credit. Need it now. Gotta be better than the Jones and the Jonesing. My title is bigger that your title and my windows have a better view than yours. I am not sure what makes me happy but I am better than you and that’s makes me happy. Kinda. See you at the mall.
Step on up. Use your brother’s back if needed. He should have moved faster. Speed kills. Kills the slow fuckers that can’t keep up. It’s the latest. It’s the greatest. That is sooooo yesterday. Get with it. Gotta have it. Gonna have it. Haven’t been there. Let’s go there. Everyone is. Shit. How’d we miss that boat? Cruising along with the latest line and the coolest gadget. Don’t act surprised. I think they saw me in that. Need something new. Something subtle that gets their attention. What will they say? Hope it is good. Who cares what they say? They don’t know anyway. Only they matter. Not them. Can’t we move closer? Why not? You can figure it out. Everyone has two mortgages, four cars, and credit cards to the max. It’s life. Let’s live it up!
They make the tough choices. Tough in how much harder it gets to fool themselves as they go along. They begin to wonder. They go inside and ask the hard questions. The ones they ask at night under the moon. The ones the addicts asked in the bottle or when riding the rush. They ask themselves because the family will not know. The church will not know. Nobody will fucking know. They ask through tears, in fears, and without cheer.
Did I run away from the right things? Did I choose the right things? Did I really need all this stuff? Did it really make me happy or did it just help me pretend I was not sad? Did I really get answers or did I merely stop asking questions? Did I? Did I? What did I did?
Then they face the two words they hate. The two words they planned around, avoided, denied, and just hoped would go away. What if?
What if? Sometimes it begins sooner but too often it begins later. Later than they wished, sooner than they wanted. It begins when their kids have kids and they are just like they was when they had kids and their parents had that look on their face. The look of “you don’t have any idea of what to do so do what you are told.” Then there are the losers. The ones that made the other choices. The wrong choices. The ones that did what they hell they wanted. The examples of what not to be become the Sears Wish Book of would if I coulds.
Would if I could but there are the kids now. Would if I could but the company really needs me. Would if I could but no one in the family would understand. Would if I could but my church says that is wrong. Would if I could but I can’t. Wish I could. I just can’t. I just can’t. Really. I just can’t.
Say it a lot. I just can’t. Say until you believe it. I just can’t. Say it and maybe it will be true. I just can’t. Should not even be thinking about it. I just can’t. Doesn’t feel right to like it. I just can’t. Please help me forget how much it excites me. I just can’t. Binge. I just can’t. Purge. I just can’t. Deny. I just can’t. Bless me, father, for I have sinned. I just can’t. Dammit. Why can’t I? I just can’t.
The sigh is the sign. The sign of surrender. The sigh of giving up. The sigh of accepting that what you really want to do is wrong. The sigh of just giving up. It feels good. The family will be better off. The church will be better off. It means more time for the job and that means more money and that means more stuff and that means more fun and that means more vacation time and that means I am happy. So sigh a little. Close the lids choices and fucking die. Get it over with.
~ “Insanity looks like sanity from the inside.” ~
Truth About Addictions
An addiction is whatever keeps you from your truth. Your truth is your truth. Anything that keeps you from it is your choice and anything you choose that keeps you from your truth is your addiction. We go to our addictions to hide from our truth. We judge from our addictions rather than face our truth. We celebrate our addictions rather than seek our truth. We deny our addictions rather than speak our truth.
We can rise above our addictions. We can move to our truth. For some, it comes at the top of a 12 step staircase to a heaven of their own choosing. Others rise above their addictions on their own. There are many paths to the truth. Each finds their own. It only matters that they rise above their addictions and move to their truth.
Truth is joy. Truth is right. Truth connects you to all truths. When in your truth, you see truth. It beckons to you for it is light and light shines. The truth is everywhere. It is yours whenever you choose it. What keeps you from your truth is easy to know. It surfaces in the negative. That’s the truth.
~ “I held my addiction in my hand and looked at it…and saw me looking back.” ~
Pro-Choice
I went to Body Worlds and was deeply touched. Body Worlds is the exhibit that has human bodies displayed to show how they work and what the insides of those amazing vessels actually look like. Real bodies. While there, I was student. Student of life. Student of wonder. Student of Magick. As a student, it was my place to open and to learn and to grow. So I did.
Body Worlds was stunning. So much to learn and understand. That night, I processed. I sat by myself and processed. Through the awe, through the tears…I processed. The parts of the exhibit that touched me the most were the parts that showed me first-hand the consequences of self-indulgence. The lungs…healthy ones and diseased ones from smokers. The livers…healthy ones and diseased ones from drinkers. Bones and muscles…healthy ones and diseased ones from the obese. I saw and wondered why, despite all the evidence and information, people would choose the suicidal choices to smoke and drink alcohol and eat gluttonously. It saddened me to see the magick that is the life we get to live in these bodies ruined by self-indulgence choices. Still, that is their right. The right to choose to put their life at risk. It is sad but it is their choice and I honor that.
It is their body. It is their right. Let them eat the hamburger. Let them choose not to feel the cow. The Bible backs them up. The majority of restaurants and other people eating in the restaurants back them up. Robert Mitchem backs them up. It is their right. It is their choice. Their life is more important than the life of the cow. A cow is a lower life form than they are. Their life is more important than the ones that will ache for them when they die earlier. It is their choice and I honor that. It still saddens to me. They can choose to have a cigarette afterwards. They can choose to have unprotected sex afterwards. They can choose to wash it all down with a shot of bourbon. It is their choice. It is just not mine and I hope they begin to make better choices for themselves.
The most touching part of the exhibit for me were the embryos and fetuses. Displayed from conception through pregnancy, there was the time line of human conception to see with the naked eye. From a zygote of nothingness that is the spark for life as humans know it, to almost full term, the marvel of human birth was shown. I saw the life in those displays. Thought of Baby Peanut, as she was called when I first saw her on a sonogram, and of her smile and hug now that she is over two years old. Thought of myself as having been all those phases. Thought of two daughters and one son as having been in those phases. Thought of all of that and more.
That night, I cried. I thought it was about abortion. I struggled with that because I am pro-choice. Then I realized it was about self-indulgence. The same self-indulgence that puts human life form over animal. The same self-indulgence that has people knowing pollute their bodies with carcinogens. The same self-indulgence that pickles livers. I saw and wondered why, despite all the evidence and information, people would choose to abort another life. Still, it is their choice. Their choice to have unprotected sex. Their choice to put their pleasure over another life form. I do not understand that choice. I understand it even less now. Still, I understand it is their choice. They likely have as good a reason as the smoker, the drinker, the obese, the meat eaters, the gay bashers, and lots of other people who exercise their choices every day.
When we begin to mandate one choice over another, the insanity begins. You can be pro-life but your choice of life partner must be this specific gender. You can be pro-life but kill animals since you are pro-human life. You can be pro-life and smoke since you are old enough to make that choice for yourself. You can be pro-life and choose to be obese. Mandating choice is mandating morality. It does not work.
I am pro-choice. I choose to honor the life form I am and the life system that is this planet. I am pro-choice. I choose to honor the choices I make and do the best I can. I learned a lot about life. I learned a lot about choice.
~ “If you didn’t care, I would wonder.” ~
Inside-Out
Pretty soon, there I was, speaking from a whole place. A voice that was me and all I was, yet so much more. There was resolve. In the search for truth, it became urgent. To know my truth, live my truth, and speak my truth. This is a place of constant learning and increasing clarity. It is about me knowing me and showing me.
There was a boldness to it; a freedom, a newness. How sad is that? Once I looked inside, the outside became clearer.
Peek-a-boo
Peek a boo. I see you. Inside there. I see you hiding in the dark and pretending you’re in control when denial is your truth. Yeppers. I see you. Cause that’s where I was. The place that birthed me. That birthed the “how the fuck did you know that?” guy that coaxes, coaches, and pulls you kicking and screaming into the light.
Yep. Some come. Some run. Doesn’t matter. Cause it must be their way on their terms and when they are ready. This ain’t the easy path. This is the path where we own all our own shit, help each other see some of the shit we might have missed, and hand you back your own shit whenever you try and pin that shit on some other asshole.
Pin the shit on the asshole. It’s an adult game. Everyone brings their own shit, shows their ass, compares notes, and takes off the blindfold, smoke blowers, perfumed stink, and pick your own metaphor for getting right with yourself.
Yep. I’m that guy. Not sure when it happened. Not even sure how. Just know I am me and some people what to know how I got to be me. I was born me. Become more me. Changed me. I am entirely about me. Want you to be entirely about you. Not gonna rescue you, save you, convert you, and will do my best not to divert you. You be you. I’ll be me. Than we can be we together. We-We-We begins with Me-Me-Me right up until Me-Me-Me is all we care about. We have to care about everyone, rely on ourselves, and do what is best for all for us. If I put you first, I am last. If I put you last, I am last. I have to put me first and then realize you’re first too……or else we all lose.
Life ain’t a competition. The person who dies with the most toys was a greedy motherfucker.
~ “I peeked behind the curtain….there’s another curtain.” ~
Disagree Able
It’s okay to disagree. You might not agree with me but that is the point since it is perfectly alright. Disagree to your heart’s content. I disagree with some of the best. Disagreement helps me understand. I disagreed with the Dali Lama today. The Dali Freaking Lama. How is that for balls? Disagree with the Dali Lama? Yep. Today. Read something he said about countermeasures, surprised me that word was even in his vocabulary. Helped me see the Dali Lama in even a greater light. He is human. Just like all of us. Loved that I disagreed with something he said because, well, because I am like that.
Disagreed with Elvis. On some of his song choices and life choices. He is the single biggest influence on my love of music and evidence of how much each one of us can mean to so many others…….and he sang some shit. He made it all sound good but come on, Elvis. You made some shit choices on songs. “Old McDonald?” “The Wiffenpoof Song”? “Sign of the Zodiac”? “Queenie Wahine’s Papaya”? A voice like that used on such crap? Yeah, I even disagree with the King.
Disagreement just means we see something differently. I like honoring other’s point of view even when they are so different than mine. Like honoring their choices even if I think they are wrong. My choices are my choices and some of them have been wrong. Gloriously wrong. Spectacularly wrong. Choices I made and live with….and learned from and honor. After all, I am human and I get stuff wrong at times. Just like all of us do. Even the very best of us. Even Elvis. Even the Dali Lama. If we think someone is flawless, we discount their human experience. If we think we are flawless, that is our greatest flaw. Gosh, I love irony. You might not. That is alright. That is how this whole piece started……disagree to your heart’s content. Does not threaten me. Maybe that is why we have four cheeks…more time to turn away and ignore the disagreement.
Turning the other cheek takes strength. Doesn’t mean you won’t kick someone’s ass if you need to kick it. Just means you turned the other cheek.
~ “Fuck the shit that is the shit that fucks up all the fucking shit that shouldn’t be fucked up.” ~
Hiding
What did I hide from and where did I hide? Felt the many in hiding this day and the many hiding places. Hiding in plain sight, behind locked doors, in gated communities, in gangs, behind judgments, from judgments, in righteousness, and under banners of hate. Felt the hiding. Hiding from so many things that they are alone. Alone and unable to hide from the very thing they really hide from…themselves.
Wherever we go, there we are. We are right there. No matter how high we crank up the music and false laughter. We hide deep in the bottle and at the other end of the plunger…..and are right there when we come back from those hiding places of delusion. We close the curtains and end up closer to whatever we conceal. We sleep perchance to dream but what comes in those dreams of truth must give up pause. We wake tired and head for the first hiding place we can find.
We hide behind the dedication of long hours and overtime pay. We hide in the dark of the movies and the light comedy of prime time. We hide from union, communion, and reunion. We hide behind pseudonyms, acronyms, homilies, similes, metaphors, and platitudes. We hide from others because we don’t know where we are. We hide from others because we are not sure who we are. We hide from others for causes blamed on others and celebrate when we find others in the same hiding place. We hide so well we forget we are hiding. We begin to think we can find ourselves in hiding.
We hide because we can’t handle the truth. We choose not to handle our truth. We hide the truth, then hide from the truth, then hide from that hiding place and hope the hiding places have things to keep us busy cause we just need to keep busy. We climb the walls rather then look in our own eyes. We work like the devil rather than look at our souls. We hid in therapy and recovery.
Hiding comes in many forms. Truth comes in one. Hi, I am Gil, and I quit hiding from myself.
Hope you like what you see. It’s all I got. It’s enough for me and it’s getting a bit better every day. Alle-Alle-In-Free.
~ The truth is what we leave behind when all is said and done.” ~
Homeless
I am hosting the homeless and have been for a few days. Homeless emotions. Negative feelings. They are not nice guests. They like to taunt me. They have a right. They used to live right here. Right inside of me. They had the run of the roost. They came and went freely. Home each day. Sure, I was polite and nice and even tempered. Most of the time. A flash here and there. A middle finger. Sometime both of them. Some well-placed curses. A punched wall or three. The negative emotions were there and they were mine. I felt them and channeled them with political correctness into other things. Suppressed them. Denied them. Acted on them. Hate. Anger. Frustration. Fear. Desperation. All those negative things. Human things. Rooted in the negative. They came back the last few days and it is not nice to have them back. Quite frankly, it is pretty shitty to have them back.
Tried to connect them. Saw causes. Saw reasons. Felt the righteousness of them. Just like the old days. A big difference this time though as I tracked them to cause as well as effect. Yet they did not stick. Memory helped. I remembered their product. Those things they lead to…the outcomes. Based on the negative, created in the negative, they produce only the negative. A shit-storm that feeds upon itself. Separation. Exclusion. Attack. They taint in the owning, in the giving, and more. Yet I felt them. They tried so hard to root and I knew they belong elsewhere.
They are part of the human condition. What we do with them is part of our own humanity. I felt them and let them wallow without action. It was time for me to understand that it was alright to feel them. They will come and visit at times. Feels almost inevitable. It was human to feel them. Yes, they slowed me. It was defense rather than offense time. It was time to observe. There is much to learn. They came back to visit and don’t feel at home anymore.
They are still here. They don’t take the hint that I moved on. Yet they are a bit frazzled. Each time I move to act on them, I bite my tongue. The Law of Attraction helps me. What we focus on gets our energy. What we feed thrives. The story of the two wolves inside each of us helps me. There is the Wolf of darkness and the Wolf of light. One is negative and one is positive. Only one will live. The one we feed.
The Wolf of Darkness rages right now. Seen and ignored at the same time. To deny his existence would be foolhardy. To feed him merely diverts nourishment from the light. I shall feed the light. The dark emotions I feel are real. That they are homeless inside of me becomes realer. The Wolf of light is more patient. She has been well fed and trusts that She will be the one I choose.
Meanwhile, I feel real human. Just another guy with some shitty house guests that will leave because they are not fed. What we feed stays. What we feed lives…and lives right under our own roof…right inside of us. I have some more housecleaning to do. I won’t sweep them under the rug. They will leave on their own. Out with the old, in with the new. Spring cleaning comes in many forms. Thanks for looking in my open windows.
~ “I am utterly lost. Let’s travel together for a while.” ~
Pain
Pain is shame, blame, hate, anger, frustration, isolation, confusion, hiding, and so much more. Pain feels stronger than healing and declares victory over all we are. Then it needs company. Feeds on company.
Others in pain get us. Others in pain understand. Others in pain say YES!. I am here with you. Right here. Inside the pain. Let’s get better together. Alone in the thing that makes us different. The thing that connects us. Let’s keep other company. Please. Please, keep me company. Help me feel better. Doesn’t that help you feel better? See? I will help you feel better. You help me feel better later. Alright? Let’s stay here. Together. Together is always better than alone. Let’s be together in this pain. No one gets my pain. No one. You come close and that will have to be enough. Just enough until it stops hurting. Until I am strong enough to move. Strong enough to believe again. Strong enough to understand why this pain is mine. Strong enough to know why me. Why me? WHY ME?
You say you get it. You say you understand. No one understands. No one can. The pain is bigger than any pain ever. Ever. Ever. Ever. Pain hurts and keeps right on hurting.
Healing is hard. Being around pain and understanding it is not yours and you can’t understand it and yet you feel it and pray for it to weaken. Want to make it go away and see it growing while you pray.
Healing is feeling, trusting, offering, hoping, listening, comforting, and crying. Crying because you do understand what you can’t understand. Crying because you feel the pain and see the pain in motion and can only offer platitudes and sincerity. Pain is shared when felt and healed when shared yet resists sharing for it is bigger than words. Pain is shared in silence louder than any cry of anguish. Pain is shared…even when we keep it all to ourselves. Pain is real and denial just makes it realer. Healing is real and believing just makes its stronger.
Healing is stronger than pain. Once we heal. Once we share. Once we let the pain out and keep it out. It will go away once it has no place to live inside. It has to. It was healed away.
~ “There is enough pain in the world, don’t spread yours around.” ~
Dark
Sitting in sadness. On the edge of polluted waters of the dirtied soul. The banks of your own personal River Styx; decay in the air, sludge stagnates the pristine. Dust where there used to be air. Tears without reason, ooze like pus. Things are dead here. Unburied corpses thought forgotten invade with pungent rot.
All this. Just on the other side of the sunflower laden hill. Mere steps from the tire swing on the sweet tree of life.
There is time to play and time for damage control. Toxic waste waits for the gravedigger’s return. Grab your pail and shovel, child. Your back yard needs tending.
~ “Sometimes I dig because I knew there was supposed to be a hole there.” ~
Rambling Rising
On the cusp of the abyss near the edge of the precipice. Wound so tight. Reigned in so well. Touching rage. Feeling the festering boil of anger that separates passion from something darker. Clearly muddled. Hearing drama chase itself up the tree. Reserving comment for what would spew forth would be disproportionate to the venting.
This is where I am. Dangling. Hung. Meant to feel all the movement and see catalysts, protagonists, antagonists, projectionists, contortionists, cartoonists, balloonists, buffoons, macaroons, legumes, pantaloons, bufferers, sufferers, and duffers.
This is where I learn.
Force fed. Jammed to capacity to test my veracity.
This is where pain meets pleasure.
Stand by for ram. You’ll love it. Most likely. In time. Given time.
This is where the globe is placed on my shoulders and I am dared to shrug.
This is where I go when I no longer resist, the urges persists, and I begin to insist.
This is Agony.
The line forms to the right.
Pick a card, any card. Put on your asbestos suit and hope it retards. Hoisted on your own petard. Reap all the rewards. That’s the point. The point of your own sword that snuck up when you were behind in payments. Now, that we have your interest…let’s crank up the voltage, press a new whine, and toast to the meal we are about to receive.
Skewers, anyone?
There are pitchforks in the corner.
Let’s throw another shrimp on Barbie and see how she handles it. All dolled up and no place to go. Hoe, Hoe, Hoe. Hidy, Ho. Show us your hiney hole. Tee up, drive it deep, and don’t bother keeping score. See you at the clubhouse. A few more holes to go and that we will compare notes.
Dangle. Jangle. Jingle, jangle. The bells are ringing and tolling and trolling and rolling down the hill with jack and Jill.
Up is down, inside is outside, and the cat ran away with the spoon.
Where’s my spittoon? Who’s a maroon? What’s up, Doc? What’s up with that? Who’s phat?
Take that and that and that and that. Splat. You, dirty rat. Rat-tat-tat-tat-that that. Rikki-tikki-tavi. Lucy and Penelope.
Who do you wanna be?
You can be all that.
~ “Oz never real gave nothing to the Tin Man that he didn’t already have.” (Toto…the group, not the dog.) ~
Primal
Here it comes. The place where our core nature is embraced. A place where savagery is acknowledged and turned into classroom. To understand what we are capable of as humans is to own our animalistic truth. Welcome to where the demons are……and where I learn to be stronger than my strongest weaknesses.
Below Surrender
There is a place below surrender. Perhaps it is inside surrender. So far inside that surrender is the universe. Surrounding you. In each of your cells. In each of your molecules. The foundation of all your thoughts and emotions and feelings. A place that totality only begins to define.
In that place, you are thing and more human because of your inhumanness. There you are less than you have ever been and it is more than you even knew.
Primal is here. You are Primal. The emotions you feel are animal…savage…barbarian…prehistoric. Yes, prehistoric. Before His Story. Before all was re-written. Back to the place of balance and time of peace. What you are in this place changes what you are now for what you are in this place overwhelms what you are, what you knew, and what you can explain. It is the ultimate strength because it is the ultimate weakness. It is ultimate resolve for it is the ultimate vulnerability.
Society does not exist here. Society is a compromise of this place. No clubs here. There are packs. There are herds. There are Tribes. Truth is spoken here. Bullshit dies inside the bull-shitter here. You either is or you ain’t here. You either survive or run like hell from here. Yet it is not the place of either or. This is the place where either or falls apart. This is the place where the machine does not work. This is the place of Self. It is where you ache to be. When you are there, it is where you ache to stay. It is home. It is real. It is now. I like it here.
~ “Shhhhhhhhh. Don’t be afraid of my dark” ~
Animus
Barely walking erect. Feeling the place we all came from and most deny. Animal nature is natural. It is the place where we roar in need and in heat. Animus. Garbed as those that declared themselves gods and less. Trapped inside this bag of bones and made to endure emotions, rationalizations, commercialization, and the curse of holier than thou. The beast in me ain’t tactics, honey. It’s me.
The call of the wild is inside. Inside self. The bottle, needle, darkness, carnal, and evil are facades. False alarms. The primal is not in those places. It is there humans go to hide. To silence the sirens. To quell the edge of our truest reality. It is there we hope to kill our truth and embrace evolution in surrender of strength. It is there we die by the suicide of denial. We are at our best, animals in the same herd. We are at our worst human at the top of the feeding chain we wrap around the planet. I am free and roam the land in place and purpose. Woof.
~ “The winds howl and buffet as the storm of change pushes even the most reluctant warriors into action. Machines fed by those already eaten work to feed on the freedom of the few who dare to feel and be human. It’s Orwellian out there, boys and girls.” ~
Primordial
Below the primal, in a place beyond definition, is Primordial. A volcano of light that oozes emotions that dwarf human processing. It is the place of all creation. It is the place of all destruction. In the Circle that began the Circles and links the Circles and moves the Circles, this is the single dot that began and completed. The SOURCE goes here to feel. This is the Fulcrum point where all things are balanced. It is the unseen spark of Magick.
In this place, estrogen and testosterone are but specks of fairy dust. Human emotions are the Fisher Price of feeling in this sphere of ultimate darkness and brightest light. Senses are senseless here. All that you know does not compute. The males taste of Primordial in moments of rage. What they do with that taste shapes their beliefs. Females think of Primordial when cycles flow fully. They taste of Primordial just prior to giving birth.
This is where you came from. This is not where you go. Everything else is elsewhere. To come from Primordial is everything. To return there is nothing. Primordial gives.
Should some preach of this, know well they are liars. Should some explain of it, mark their words well short of the mark. Yet you will know those that felt of it by the changes within them. You know it in yourself by a confusion of insights…by joyous torment…and by solitary connectedness. Others will sense you have been there just as you will sense others have been. If they help you make sense of it, they do not get it. If you help them make sense of it, you will lose it.
Primordial is Trust. Trust is Primordial.
~ “My understanding exceeds my knowing. My trust exceeds my understanding.” ~
The Gelding’s Tale
The darkness shrouded my world. Trees, turned sentinels, road-blocked my path.
Fear bubbled at the back of my throat like tainted meat. I gulped it back and tasted its disgust all over again.
These woods invited me but now shackled their victim with torturer’s glee.
Staying here morphed to unthinkable. Anywhere was better than this. Anyplace. Just not here. Here was nowhere.
Direction was more senseless with each tentative step. I crouched…close to crawl…and felt my way in the night.
The sentinels canopied the sky away.
The crunch of autumn beneath my feet was the sound of death and decay and decomposition. It played its tune and I danced the puppet dance of the sacrificial virgin. Moving from the trap, into the trap. Herded by unseen forces that reported to the unseen moon.
My panic broke out in trembles and its cold sweated through my skin.
Labyrinth?
Lair?
I moved amazed and got nowhere.
Until the clearing. There.
Just ahead. A fire encircled with hooded heads. They moved about in freeing glee.
Human shaped but more to see. More to dread.
The tree line was lifeline so I hugged it well. That opening of land spoke of neer-do-well.
Deep waters there waited and I knew for me. I thought to run but that was not to be.
The hood became real and the binds tied tight. They lifted caught prey and ignored my fright.
Clothes were sheered. Exposed the skin. Throbbing organ fueled many grins.
Touched with love. Touched with hate. Each touch in way They celebrate.
Stuffed to silence. Kicked to pain. Spun to senseless. Bound again.
~ “Question: Did you ever pay for sex?” Answer: Every time.” ~
Enjoy your Suffering
“Enjoy your suffering”. She said others things. She was quite gentle actually. Very little theatrics. Polite. Loving. She slipped it in with an evil ease. “Enjoy your suffering”. She knew the effect. She knew it would crush deeply and sweetly. She was very effective in its use and did it so easily that how effective She was skyrocketed.
She sensed the processing that would follow. She likely underestimated the depth of the need but She hit the bull’s-eye. The male saw all the images of all the pictures and was eased right into his depravities and addictions as sure as the most tightly bound victim in the evilest dungeon. “Enjoy your suffering”. She knew he would panic just as he prayed he would when he did not know what She and Whoever discussed. The images of seemingly bizarre realities moved all around him. In this place, he was the being drawn by Michael Manning and colored to reality by Blotch. All those and more with cartooned exaggerations of a reality that he rode as She left him with Her sweet words. “Enjoy Your Suffering.”
There was silence inside. The rage against the flaunted truth jammed down his own throat by the unspoken thanks and pleas for even more such torture. The claws flashed and retreated quickly, unable to fool even himself that he would or even could resist this place. “Enjoy your suffering.” She spoke and his almost hissed “Bitch” was laughed back into his own face before he dared to speak it. The head bowed and he prayed where the complaints would have been. The openings pulsed as the slave lived the words She lobbed so easily on the crumbling and joyous pet. “Enjoy Your suffering.”
“Yes, Mistress. Thank You, Mistress.” Truth flows from the tongue easier now. The suffering is sweet and very much enjoyed.
~ “My vanilla is different than your vanilla.” ~
Grow Up
Sometimes, I don’t like the messages. Sometimes, they make me feel sorry for myself. It is easier to feel the global answers and how obvious they are. I can see the big picture very clearly and how we can and will make changes that require what we will feel as tough choices but that we will know are right choices. That is much easier that accepting that same thing when it makes me realize something I want will not be. Not this year. Not at this time.
Could I make it happen? Sure. Just like we do as we consume the planet and spend what we do not have. I could charge it and pay it off later. I could borrow it and pay the folks back that would be happy to help me out. I could force it to happen because it feels so important and was so important and will be so fantastic and will help me be better and blah, blah, blah, blah. Or I could just accept I do not have the resources for what I have declared would be and then be a big boy and let it go. I could accept that it is not to be this year. I could do what is right and not do something that consumes what is not mine but is borrowed to be paid back in the future.
There are other things I could do as well. Go back to the work force and get the resources. Go back and reenter that loop of no return where we earn what we need, pay for the right to earn it, and do things we often do not wish to do to have things we often do not need but truly want. I could kneel to the dollar and pretend I was doing it by choice rather than from want. I could build my case and earn the money to pay for what I can live without while insisting I had to do it. I could blow smoke up my own ass and get cash to make things right. For me. For what I want. For what I wish to be. For me…the bold example of someone making the choice to walk away from the insanity…right up until I do not get what I want.
Sometimes, I do not like the messages. The messages are right though….even when I do not like them. Choose wisely. Trust totally. Grow up.
You can’t always get what you want
You can’t always get what you want
You can’t always get what you want
But if you try sometimes you just might find
You just might find
You get what you need
You can’t always get what you want
You can’t always get what you want
You can’t always get what you want
But if you try sometimes you just might find
You just might find
You get what you need.
(Rolling Stones)
~ “We all need an attitude adjustment at times.” ~
Cry, Baby
Tears withheld spoil and taint. They fester. Turn to poison. Caged behind facades of stereotypes. Poison penned ferments to hate. A lake of sorrows drowns our beauty. Our humanity. Our soul. Dammed emotions shift to ache. Ache denied with bluster and bravado.
We lie to self about the pain. Lessen self as pain turns to shame and morphs into blame. Strength drowns and weakness abounds. We hurt. Then, we can hurt. Then, we do hurt. Then, we hurt less inside the more we hurt outside. It feels that way. In short bursts that bring more tears of sadness when no one else can see because we refuse to let anyone see.
We punch ourselves for even crying alone. We are our own sadist to our own masochist. Perpetual motion of pain. Soon we are alone behind a wall of denied pain. Perhaps it is shame. More likely blame. All the same. Pain. The no-win game. We move with pain and as pain…sharing the only thing we know…..pain. We drowned and died in tears not shed.
This is the birthing pool of rage. The waters of inhumanity. The river of isolation, separation, and hate. Then tears find their way to the light…….through other eyes. Ours are closed…dead or living dead….death is death. Tears will flow.
~ “Love knows no as well as love knows yes.” ~
Sometimes
Sometimes the cage sucks.
Sometimes I don’t want the wants.
Sometimes I try to deny the cravings and the shame and the ache and the pain.
Sometimes I want to hiss and snarl and claw and rip my way out of this cage and away from this longing.
It hurts so damn much at times to feel the longing and feel it held just out of reach in evil temptation.
It feels like punishment but I know it is something much different than that.
It feels like shame and humiliation and those things are to be wallowed in until understood and ripped to shreds with insights.
It feels like rejection and isolation and remorse and penance.
I hate those feelings yet remain and have to accept it is choice.
The cage holds me very securely as I pull it tight and pray it holds my rage and rebellion. The bars are stronger as I understand they are the bars of acceptance.
Still, I want to complain and feel pity and find comfort and be told it will be alright.
Instead, I crave more and huddle in the embarrassment of my growing exposure.
Instead, I pick at the very pain and intensify it and become more animal and whore and slave with each pick
Instead, I open myself and remain silent…knowing my screaming is known well and brings happiness in a wonderfully sweet and twisted way.
This is torture…suffering was just the warm up.
~ “I would criticize the critics but….well……then I would be one of them.: ~
Rain Man
They ensured I was up just before the first lightening flash. The flash surprised me. The rumble confirmed it was real. Raindrops came. Big ones. Pounds. Rat-tat-tats. Drew me to the windows. Upstairs. Me and the night and the once quiet world. The storm came quick and sure. It let me know more followed. The announcement that I would be inside. Would be writing. Would be reporting. Did I quit looking before it left or did I just head to the keyboard? Wait. The rain is still out there. The first two pieces are shared. This one is embryonic. It is raining more. Writing less and feeling more feels right.
I woke up in love. Loved. Loving this. Loving you. Loving all of it. Especially the rain. Especially having no place to go and all the time in the world to get there. Over the bills. Under the radar. Right now. Right now is enough. Right now it is raining and the world has to adjust. Has to roll up the windows and get to work and be inconvenienced. Has to miss out on this moment.
I am braver at 3 AM. Always have been. Now I am braver more and more. Three AM is even more important now. I AM at 3 AM. I am what I am. I am what I am for real now. The old Three AM is me. The new 3 AM me is almost me. Three AM. Three AM. Three AM. Beetlejuicy. Juicy Fruity. Root Toot Tooty. Here I am at Three AM. Popeye. Rain Man. Dustin off. Robin eggs huddled in nests. Wings hearing the knock knock knocking at the door as raindrops keep falling overhead. Its Three AM and I am here. Lightning up the skies. Lightning up the load. Cinching up the harness. Toting the barge. Bailing the hay. Hey, Hey, Hey. We are the Monkees. Monkey man. Monkey Man. Monkey shines his light on me. Its past a quarter to three and I am the only one in the joint and now you see. You see what you get cause I am what I am. Rainy days and Mondays and Karen died too soon, Richy is a lot different, and that one Carpenter really nailed it. I am braver at 3 AM, have friends in places I have never been, and settle in for the storm.
It is just rain now. The rumble is away. Saying remember me. Touching that other slave in that other away. Waking that other one that finds peace at Three AM and lets the rain ease inside hard, or soft, or easy. Spreads wide, thrives, dies, survive. Resurrected again and again. Rained on, in, over, through, to, towards, under, up and with. The one hand dances quicker than the other. The other hangs on to 3 AM long after 3 AM kissed me awake. Prepped me for usage. Filled me with words and the bravery to speak them. To show them. To live them. To let them whoosh from up there to down here through there and out across time and space. It’s reigning men. Its about time. It is about space. Imogene Coco was a lot funnier than pretty. She was what she was. I am what I am. Especially at Three AM. Especially when it rains. Good morning, Sunshine. Rise and Shine. Here I am to start your day. Mighty Mouth roared in the middle of the night, split some infinitives, talked about Jesus and Buddha and that guy from Laugh-In who creeped me out. What’s the Buzz? I tell you what’s happening.
~ “Everyone feels good in a cape.” ~
Manna
The ferns and palm trees do not fool it. The choice of menu and feeding times are ineffective slights of Hands. So much freedom…all the way from those unseen bars over horizons yet to be tasted to the cage door with the keys held as bait for good performance.
The beast is not fooled. It did fool itself for a while when it walked erect in all its finery. Those that sought it and followed it helped it feel elsewhere most of the time. Soon, it was so immersed in the show and its vital role that it became the character. It was the Man. It was the Master. It was the Teacher. It was the male and the slave and the male and more. It was immersed, consumed, and total. The Beast roared and the audience was on the edge of their seats each and every show.
The beast is at core today. At least, that is what it suspects. Feeling its truth and craving what it has been showed to be its manna.
Yummy manna. Tasty manna. Sweet to touch and lick and rub and feel and know. Where has the manna gone? Was it really here? Was it really that insightful? Is it peyote for the beast? Is it the drug of inner consciousness and outer limits? Is it the nourishment beyond any known in depth and at core?
The beast wants its manna. It roars for it. Aches for it. Lusts for it. Where is the manna? Perhaps closer to the bars. Has the cage shrunk? Is that a sign? Is the beast being herded to take what is slipped through the bars? The beast moves to the bars to see what awaits.
It hungers and it really does not remember how to hunt manna. Did it hunt manna or did it hunt when manna went away? It hungers anew. Perhaps there really is manna. Perhaps its just has to open wide and take it. Perhaps this is a new show and the audience will like the tricks it learned.
The whole world is a stage and the beast will play its part.
~ “Crazy is the new normal and normal is the new crazy.” ~
Flower Child
Tears kissed me awake this day. Eyes cleansed in light of hope and truth. Inside the flower, I open and gather.
Kissing from love and in love and with love. Tasting all around the darkness and sensing the cancer of doubt retreat back into the fear and loathing. To be of this flesh yet so far removed from the dirt that is our substance.
In that dirt is life. The life of that thing next to me, before me, and after me. The life that loved me to breathing and will miss what I see in the mirror when the reflection they see goes beyond their own flesh.
This is the opening and joy of acceptance and the hunger is deep and the light eases in and fills me with nothing for that is home and love.
Yahweh. Hip Hip Hooray.
Come and be of the vibrations and flower children in the garden of the light. Numbers speak, music hums, and words flow in cleansing waves of birth. See through me and feel you for you are loved so much that you show yourself everywhere I look.
~ “Some days make for Three Soul Nights.” ~
Truth
I think the movie was right. We can’t handle the truth. That’s the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. We see the truth and then we spend time trying to deny it or change it. If it is the truth, it is your truth and that is all that matters. Some will get it. Some will not. It does not matter if they get it. It matters if you get it. If you do, live it or spend your time doing anything and everything but living it. Your truth is your either/or.We seek the truth and then when it is in our hand we want it to be anywhere else. Want some truth? You are gonna die. Just like everyone that already died, everyone that was born and has yet to die, and everyone that has yet to be born. We are all gonna die. No one gets out of here alive. You are gonna die. It is not an if. It is a when. That is your truth. Wrap it up with a bow and pretend it is something you can put in the closet and open when you are ready. This birthday present opens itself whenever it is damn ready. Surprise! You’re dead.
So the fuck what? You can spend time in that closet and hope nobody finds out you are worried about dying. You can go through life with one foot on a banana peel and the other in designer shoes. It does not matter. You are gonna die and the sooner you accept that, the better off you will be. That is the truth.
Take the box out of the closet and put it right in your face every day. Jam it up your ass and carry it around all the time. Take it deep cause you are pretty well fucked either way. Own it. Claim it. Dance with it. Celebrate it. Begin each day celebrating that you ain’t dead yet. Maybe tomorrow, next Tuesday, or forty-three years from the last time you got laid. It’s a coming, boys and girls. It’s a coming. The only surprise is how and when and, for some of the more mysterious among us earthlings, who. So let it see in the light of day and move forth with gusto.
Live. That is the truth. Honor that truth and all the other truths fall right into place. Don’t wish. Do. Don’t watch. See. Ride the ride and know that it will end when it over and you are just along for the ride. Keep your hands in your own fucking car if you want. Mine are raised on the steepest drops and I scream “Shit!” at the top of my lungs as we drop into another abyss of not having a fucking clue. If I didn’t do that, I might as well be dead. That’s my truth.
~ “All Roads lead to Truth or Consequences. All roads start from Truth or Consequences. Sooner or later we choose truth…….or consequences. Our way is our highway.” ~
Futility
I credit the moon. Resolve feels good. It has been quiet. Almost dormant. I tried on many suits. Judge. Victim. Savior. Avenger. Martyr. Recluse. Guru. Mute. Felt them…and knew. Stopped trying on suits and just was. Almost watching. Barely there. Tried the emotions. Anger. Frustration. Hate. Despair. Felt them…and knew. Today, I altered my route. Enough to feel change in routine. Enough to run a bit where I used to walk. Enough to shake things up…inside me. A small change here and a small change there. Felt them…and knew.
Lectures bore me. Excuses amuse me. Denial makes me laugh. Resistance is futile. I credit the moon…and resist a heck of a lot less. Futility doesn’t suit me.
~ “Some looked for light and found it. They added their light to what they found. Some looked for darkness and drama and found it. They added their drama and darkness to what they found. Life goes on….light shares. Thanks for your light, my friends.” ~
Gut Instinct
Sometimes my gut instinct does not make sense. I obey it anyway. Still have those conversations and questions and that stuff germane to obedience of things beyond our understanding. The little guy with wings on one shoulder and the little guy with horns on the other and the whisper of “Come on, it will be alright.”. Still have those inner debates that border somewhere between polite argument and out and out war. Luckily, I have been guided, cajoled, broken, controlled, directed, encouraged, inspired, monitored, ordered, nudged, force fed, slam dunked, and loved by some very wise and wonderful people over the years to be a good boy and do what is right. My wingedness usually trumps my horniness. Most of the time….more and more….enough to make me better and keep me human too. That is my story and I am sticking to it.
Still the conversations about what to do and when and why and all of that continue. Now the conversations are inside my own head, most of the time. The good guy wins because I listen to my gut instinct rather than my ego that knows exactly what to do and exactly when to do it. Otherwise, I would not have put on that CD for yesterday’s energy session.
The CD was exactly wrong. I knew the session needed a different musical energy than a regular massage one. That was the easy part. Knew that at the outset. Opened Sacred Space, selected the right incense, ensured the table and supplies were ready, and headed upstairs to find just the right sound. Something that was there…just waiting for me to know it when I saw it. Ideas sprung forth and a particular CD came to mind. My hands moved cases to find that one while my eyes looked at what shifted in the search. Each movement assured. Guided. Comforted. Then a CD surfaced and I had one of those hmmmmm’s. Didn’t remember it was there. Didn’t know I ever had it really. Yet it intrigued. It moved to my hand, then to my eyes, and into my mind. It went downhill from there, control wise. The CD was exactly wrong and I knew exactly why. There is sat though….in my hand…….staring back up at me. Taunting. Hmmmmm. The pause was deliberate. The deliberation short. My gut said take it down stairs. Give it a listen. So I did. Well trained and docile servant to the Muses of touch.
Even in the session space, it was wrong. Exactly wrong. Would result in a completely different session for the client. Yet the CD sat there. It might have chuckled but that was likely my imagination. I pondered and wondered and did all those things we do when we are guided to do something that just doesn’t make sense. Being the good boy I am, the CD stayed.
The session did not go as planned. It headed off in a direction so different that I was stunned only slightly less than the client. The CD was almost forgotten in the shift. When it was remembered, it was exactly right for the session. A session of deep and penetrating lessons that reverberates even today. A session that opened me to my truth as much, if not more, than it did the client. A win-win exchange of therapist and client that fostered trust for both in something far greater than the sum of two wholes.
My gut instinct does not make much sense sometimes. That is when it needs to be obeyed to be understood. Overriding it would mean I know better than whatever it is that put me here and wants me to do my best with all I am and all I have. Heck, I don’t know better than whatever created me and everything else that ever was, is, and ever will be. That much I understand. Thanks to my gut instinct yesterday, I understand it a bit better today.
~ “Need proof today effects tomorrow? Look around. Today is the result of your yesterdays.” ~
Turned Out
The fifteen year old me likes how I turned out. Should have been quicker but lessons abound on the bountiful harvest of traveling paths thought right that turned left. Roundabouts are effective. Roundabouts and roundhouses. I took the long way around but got back to the passion of what’s ahead with a good dose of knowing what is ahead.
Rambling. Bambling. Bushes that burn and scorch the land. Land of the free and how many payments can you afford. Doors open. Doors shut up. Plunged into how pretty and invulnerable do you think you really are?
Morristown. Middletown. Our Town. A Townhouse in the country is just a house if it is one of many. How many houses can you make a home? How many homes does to take make a house? A full house? A flushed face and potty trained voting base that remembers to vote the party line and for the Idol that just might make it.
Miss America used to matter. Miss Rheingold used to matter. Misfortune…….ah, too bad. Better you than me. What do you mean first you and then me? Wait a minute. Maybe I do care. Maybe I can help.
Will it keep me safe? Safe from the shit I see others suffer on the news before the more important show I will forget three weeks from now when the next most important show shows up that most important show. The shows the thing. The whole world is a stage and most of us are in the audience. An audience with the Pope.
THE Pope. Not dope. Pope, dude. The Pope Dude. Himself. Like Peter. THE Peter. Not Peter of Peter, Paul, and Mary. Bigger than that. Bigger than Elvis? Well, no, not the big. Big though. Big deal. Only one of him right now. Until they fire up the smoke and find some other guy. Old guy. White guy. Like Jesus.
Not that he was White. He was Righteous. Him and His Brothers. Righteous Brothers and the Unchained melody of life after death. Tithe. Tithe. Tithe. Pay your dues. Now, brother. Bless me, father, for I have sinned. Broken the laws I failed to question.
~ “If I wanted it, I brought it because I had the money or would soon have the money. Now, I pay the price. Now I spend my time paying attention to what should have my interest all along.” ~
Writer
One day I really became a writer. It was after “Jersey Sure”. Sure, I wrote “Jersey Sure” but that was me writing rather than me being a writer. Years after that book, there were exercises. Automatic writing. Those timed exercises where the words flow….without editing. After a few weeks, the floodgates opened and the words flowed. It was me after I got out of my own way.
Those exercises freed to writer from the limitations of my ego. Soon, “Sabbats’ flowed to light. After that, Buddy showed up and channeled “Dead Drunk” through me. Throughout all that, this book birthed. The pieces arrived and arrived and arrived. These are the reminders of my soul. The Puzzle Pieces of all I was and what I became.
The writer allowed my true passions into the light. That begat changes that caged all I knew and unleashed the unknown. You are reading what was. You are inside the birth canal of the being I became.
Passion
Poems before they are ready are pieces of shit. What you had for dinner last night and the color of your socks is something to miss. Where was my passion? Inside of my pain? No. It was outside of my pain. Waiting for me to go inside the pain and fire it even more. Passion is not dried by tears. Passion is fueled by tears. Passion is fueled by truth. Passion IS fire. The fire of life and joy and more. Passion is purpose.
Passion is not an accident. Passion is not a by-stander at your accident scene. Passion shows itself in knowing smiles and spits on smugness. Passion is motion and the peace of knowing stillness. Passion is reading something and knowing it says nothing and seeing something and sensing everything about it. Passion is writing your truth and knowing the audience will see. Writing to the audience is whoredom and passion is a Lady. She is my Mistress and shows herself when I am at my best, tolerates me when I am in the middle, and waits for me when my head is up my ass sucking the feces of self-pity and any other garbage that slows me down.
I went to sleep without her last night and woke to her this morning. She woke me gently and let me lay there in bed and savor the taste of the reunion. Then she kicked my ass out of bed, jammed me face into the keyboard, and said, “Write, bitch. People are waiting for you.”
~ “Show your truth, the chips will fall where they may. Speak your truth, then stand by for ram. Who cares what you think? Just say something wrong and you will know.” ~
Art Teasin’ Well
Things are realer. More solid. More natural in some way. Picasso painted truth that lies there waiting to be seen but not heard of much since mums the word. A Kentucky Mummy Fried up the leftovers and sucked all the loose change from behind the couch cushions along with some popcorn and two buttons that look like Bozo’s. The clowns are coming out of the wood work. The news is wrapped in crown molding as paranoia about handshakes and smiles as weakness is spoken from a place of confusion and fear. Ex marks the spot on the map in Capitol City where tourists shutter and snap somewhere between the checklist and the starting gate. So pony up, boys and girls, and get a hitch in your get along. Why can’t we all just get along?
Step right up, yowsa, yowsa, yowsa. The truth may be out there but the show’s on the insides. Check out some books from the Library of Congress if you dare the fees and can fit through the loopholes that mask the real deal. Alice says to cut the cards and read to her. So I read and write and right and left a lot on the stairway to heaven. The Devil and Me and Mrs. Jones got a thing going on. Master of disaster is a whirlygig away from the bite of the blade. Bend Me, Shape Me, pick up your room, and put it in the forest for all the creatures to see. Howl at the moon but don’t speak with your mouth full. Spring has sprung so unlock that jaw cause here it is. I heard the bell above the door when it entered. Thanks for shopping with us. Come again…and again…and again. The eye teeth see anew. Tomorrow arrived a day early and I didn’t see it coming. See you soon. Ya’ll come back now, hear?
I feel it as my thoughts round the bend and head for home base with my elephant ears flapping in the wind. Punch lines process differently since foundations have shifted and values changed and dollars make less sense. How I feel about things as they happen changed as well since they happen regardless of how I feel about them. Much less anxiousness about being clueless and between something that has yet to show up on the treasure map that beats between my chest and that place that has a mind of its own. Tween. A tweener. Somewhere between what I was and what I become. Things are tween. Far from what they were and far to go to what they shall be. The compass points up, the stairs curve to the right, and mirrors are at high tide.
Tickets, please. Take your place on the wall. Places, everyone. Places. All the pretty maids, all in a row. Made you look. Made you look. Made you steel for your mother’s pocketbook. Girders and garters and panties of lace. Lace ‘em up and lace up tight, Pilgrim. One pill makes you smarter and one pill makes you late. Sooner or later is better than never. Save me an aisle seat. Bottoms up. Who put this gum here? Bite me.
~ “You gotta see my truth to believe it.” ~
Dead Man Talking
Write like it really matters. Speak to be heard when you are dead. Words can do that. Reach from the grave and say “I was here and here I am again.” Be so much you that your words are more than anything seen and known by your senses, their senses, or any senses. Be senseless. Boldly so. Audiences like the senseless. Be your own best audience. Don’t make sense of it all. Make truth of it all. Pledge your Allegiance to way beyond this breath, the next breath, and the last breath. That dying one that you ride into the light and shine in that place we all wonder about. That later place. Now all we have is this now place. So be in it. Stand up. Write your name in permanent piss across the sky. Make them feel you.
They can’t get to you for clarification. Nope. Number disconnected. That person doesn’t live here anymore. We don’t have a record of that. This is all there is. This document in your hand. These words in your head. Yeah, maybe there’s a tombstone. Maybe it can be found. Maybe they spelled it right. The name. Maybe they spelled it right. Maybe it is over the right grave. If there is a grave that is.
Graves are serious things. Don’t joke about graves. Dead people deserve more respect. Their bodies were as important as yours. They lusted, loved, laughed, cried, shit, jumped, danced (some good and some please don’t ever do that in public again, EVER!), and then they died. Just like you did. Except the dying part. You didn’t do that part yet. I know. Cause you’re reading this. Me? I might have done that part already. You might be the seventy-sixth trombone that passed since my bones became dem bones then no bones and then dust in someplace that might be so forgotten nobody even remembers where the bodies are buried. If so, cool. It worked. I wrote it right. You read it right. We got it right. Right on, dudes and dudettes. Do they even use those words anymore? In your time. The time when you are reading this. Do they even use those words? Do they even use words? Dang, I hope so. Otherwise, I am talking and ain’t nobody listening. That just wouldn’t be right. Why write if nobody is listening? I want to write and be heard. I want to write like it matters. Hope I did cause I am and if I am and I did that means everything worked out just fine.
~ “”New cemeteries just lack something. I guess it takes a lot of death to really feel life in them. Old cemeteries feel peaceful. Quiet yet far from empty. I guess it takes us a while to just shut the hell up after we die.” ~
Believe it or not
The world just beyond your touch. Things seen without sight and tasted in the soul. Some must feel to know. So know to feel. Beyond our senses is a level of belief. A place where fiction meets fact and dances a tune the piper plays from inside the instrument as the instrument. Worlds are there. People created from inside other people’s reality that spark a new reality and beget realities beyond those realities. Introduced to us in books, mirrors, movies, mediations, contemplations, and salutations.
I knew a man once that chose not to suspend his belief. He wondered how anyone could care about all those people in all those books that are figments of someone else’s imagination. He was concrete and all those existences were abstract. Unreal. Beyond his senses. He was a successful man. Sincere in his beliefs. A being of integrity. His integrity. His reality. His sense and senses and census. He knew the world and worldly ways and moves sincerely on his path. Years ago, he shared his truth about fiction. Today, I felt that from a place beyond his reality and my own realities. The words of yesteryear digested today and revealed more truths in the remnants.
Ah, all those lovely people out there in the dark. I know them. I feel them. I am them. Those that came before are with me. Those that shall follow will feel me. I am a Being of truth. My truth was here before I arrived. I learn more of it each day. My truth shall be absorbed and become part of the whole when I move to fiction, fragment, filament, and dust. The particles shall muddy someone’s windows, broaden some horizon, and build mountains that brush the sea with shadows.
I am the hero in the Comic Books, saved by the bell, and ringing in the new year. Peace be with you, all we are saying is give peace a chance, and chances are my composure sorta slipped. Laying a finger aside of my nose, time to pick myself up, dust myself off, dance, sing a tune, play a flute…do anything I try. The truth shall set you free. Fact? Fiction? Don’t attempt to adjust the dial. I am 99 and 99/100s percent pure. Pure what? Float like a butterfly and sting like a bee. Honey, a strange thing happened at the office today. There was a guy there that….. Hard to believe, ain’t it?
~ “Elvis listened to the music in their voice and then sang it in his. The audience felt both.” ~
Right? Write?
Write right wrong. Somewhere in between. In between legs. In between breaths. In between sheets. Sheets of ice. Ice Capades. All the way. USA. This is taking time to relearn but relearning is good. Like the nuns. Like the suns. Suns of the pioneers. Pie in the face.
Soupy sales is dead and who’s laughing now? God damn him and the waiter that was not a waiter but a silly guy going out of his way to be a pain in the ass. Frank knew. Sammy Knew. They all knew. I knew but not until too late when they all died and then I realized how much they lived. They did it their way. Highway men. Highway robbers. Grave robbers. Tony Robbins. Harold Robbins. Red, red robin. Bop Bop Bobbing along.
I must work on this. This is my art and craft and crafty and all. Good for ever and a day in the solitude of the moment and the sanctity of the unknown. For you know whom the bells tolls and the bell tolls house cookies are toll hose cookies if you can pay the fine. That’s fine with some. Used to be fine with me. Now I have a whole different kind of fine. Mighty fine. Mighty mouse. Mighty mouth. Write, write, writing along.
~ “He had an itchy typing finger and show off more than he could chew.” ~
Word Guitar
I reached for a guitar and wrote a poem. The canvas cried for its cover and my pen told how it hungered and what it wished to be. My flats are sharp and my sharps just don’t cut it. My words sing though. Sing right from me into you and name your tune. My art crosses my own darkness, lights out, and finds friends I may never get to meet. “Me, too” people. They see themselves in me and don’t have to set eyes on me. Here I am. Lettering in life. Lettering life. Letters, notes, books in various stages of birth, rants, raves, waves, wakes, and shimmy-shimmy-coco-pop.
Don’t believe me? Try and deny that I moved your thoughts. Hum along with me. I am in your crook and nanny as sure as a crooked nanny, Ed Burns, Annette, and let’s be frank…..you like it.
Someone else can teach the world to sing. I write. You read. That’s enough for me.
Strumming and drumming…..I just keep ‘em coming. It rocks me. It’s how I roll. It’s the music in my soul. It makes me whole. Holy, Holy, Holy. Once more. From the top. Maybe the bottom. La-La-La-Land of a thousand ways to say something. Anything. As long as it matters. As long as I matter. As long as I have the energy. Even longer. Longer than forever is a long, long time….except when forever is yesterday and tomorrow is now and that might be sooner than we think.
At no time did my fingers leave my hand. Stuck my finger in the dyke and all hell broke loose. Hell hath no fury like a woe, man. Woe. Woe sucks. Let’s sing the blues and paint the town read.
~ “Writers do it on a keyboard.” ~
Freeflow
The river flows over the banks. The ultimate interest. The interest of seekers and doers and givers. The dams have burst. We touch and break through our own dam sexuality. We share and watch our dam emotions run free. We stand on higher ground as dam schedules crumble. The river rages with the cleansing waters of the Feminine. Kindred embrace the cycles again. The Tribe dances the celebration of all life in Mothering moonlight.
Come from the hiding spots and hold hands again. Lost no more. Move in trust and love and light. Choose. Legs closed in fear ease open. The energy opens and we thirst. The thirst opens and we drink. The cup is shared for some have the cup and some have the nectar. Needed mead. Nursing sweetness. Healing fluids. Lapped in love and trust.
The stub of the toe cautions and we heed. Moon howls are gifted to self and the others in the night. The shaft of our own light penetrates the darkness. Night waters. Head waters. Break waters. Breeches. Speeches. Leeches. Rise with the tide of change. Moonlight swells the birth canals of hope. The children reach to the truth and the natural order is filled.
~ “Do you really want to know?” ~
Dreamscapes
Last night’s dreams were a message and so were the many emotions and more that surfaced during the night. The slowing pace…the in-between times…the humbling…and all that happens now shifts things inside and out.
Time is more plentiful it seems. Time to process, learn more patience, celebrate the best of fortunes, honor the joys tasted, tend the garden of self and nature, hear notes of music in silence and symphony, commune with the nothingness that is our existence in the big scheme of things, and wait. Wait to catch my breath and feel the flow as it moves me into more unknowns and swells with cosmic linking beyond my understanding.
There is less I can do, more to be done, and more ways to do it. So I do my best…knowing that somehow that is enough…even when I wonder how and why. I am wonder-full…and stunned to life.
~ “Dreams coming true might be such a good thing.” ~
Storms
Storms close eyes to hindsight. All the wouldas, couldas, and shouldas fall into nothingness as you batten down the hatches and hope the hell you did enough to survive. Storms are really cool. They reduce us. Break us from thinking we are kings and queens and jam our omnipotent pawny asses into the storm cellars praying to that Higher Power we thought we were last Tuesday.
Does this mean we will miss Johnny’s recital? Well, duh. What about the big sale? Well they might still have that…….if the store is still there…if we can get there……if we have anything left to buy anything with………come to think of it, fuck the big sale. The couch might need replacing and might look better against the other wall……let’s just put the fire out and hope the goddamn wall is still there. Storms have that effect.
Metaphorical, categorically, category One through we are gonna need a bigger boat, has anyone seen my boat? Turn into the wind, dammit. We ain’t gonna outrun this thing. Turn into the wind, Gilligan. Great….Gilligan the Storm Trooper. Just great. Where are Ahab, Nemo, Poseidon, Wonder Womyn, and Jumping Jack Flash when we need them?
Light the torches, send out the bat signal, duck and cover, don’t use the elevators, and bring a change of clothing…..this is gonna take a while. It’s a twisted twister of a brew-ha-ha…..hardy fucking har-har. Looks like a fine mess we’ve gotten ourselves into, Stanley. Stanley? Like Stanley and Livingston? Didn’t he play Ernie on My Three Sons? Or was that Chip? No more bets, please. Storm’s a coming.
Shit storms, dust storms, dust bowls, empty bowls, put on bowling shoes, any shoes, and let’s shuffle off to anyplace but here. Shuffle, shake, rattle, and roll. Smoke 'em if you got 'em, too late to quit now if you haven’t so put another nail in the coffin, the shit smell from your pants will mask the ashtray stink. Looks like we are in for Stormy weather and it ain’t just whistling the wind of change in Dixie. It’s in Max, Jake, Abdul, Abdul’s long lost brother, and everybody on the 6:15 to White Plains. Everybody in White Plains and any planes for that matter. Wouldn’t want to be up in the air right now. Need to be well grounded when things come home to roost. Cock-a-doodle-doo, Yippie-Ki-Ey, and see you on the other side.
Did I set the alarm? Maybe I need to check. Make Rumi for Daddy. It’s snuggling time.
~ “So far, I’ve survived every storm.” ~
Between
Between. That is what it feels like. Not back there. Not up there. Headed there. Not sure where there is. Not sure where here is. Between where I was and where I am going. Between. Perhaps it is the veils. That is part of it. It is more though. Kinda know this place but not like it is now. Between. It used to really, really frustrate. It was depressed. Now it is kinda sad but only barely. Between. Some things move to the forefront but they do in a whisper. Barely a breeze of movement but there is that wind in the distance. Between. Touching the earth in new ways. Accepting the truth of what will not taint or diminish what comes. Knowing subtle answers to major AHAs. I am much quieter. The passions are on hold or something to that effect. Between. Twixt and shoutless.
Used to be a marathoner. Now I am a walker. Yet I ran last week and saw how far from a marathoner I am now. So I ran some more and then some more. Just short stints. Measurable only by improvement and that slight feel that it is important that I feel where I am as well as where I was. Things come back. Things go away. Things flap in the breeze. Things are all around. Things elude. Things are between something. Not between the rock and the hard place. Not between you, me, and the bedpost. Not between the haves and the haves not. Not between your ass and a hole in ground. Just between. Somewhere between the lines. Somewhere over the Rainbow. Somewhere there’s a place for us. Somewhere. Somehow. Someday. Today is good. Tomorrow will be better. Gotta run.
~ “Life’s a trip. Don’t forget to write.” ~
Daytrip
Went away yesterday. A day trip. A few hours actually. Felt like a day. A week. A cruise amazing and forever and over before I knew it. A place of trust. Where I was free to disappear. To be on the other side of human and know it was needed as well as right. To be inside the decadence and depravity and smile because it is so damn sweet. To be all those things and be more me because I am of and in and about and over and up and with those things. Positioned deep into my own propositions, suppositions, imaginings, fantasies, fears, and oh hell yeahs.
Sanctuary is there. Inside of me. That place in the brochures, wanderlusts, wishes, hopes, nightmares, and dreams. Many places. Many wishes. Many wonderings…….right inside of me. The place I look for……and then wonder why I left. Dorothy! Dorothy! Come home, little one. Come home before the storm. There’s no place like home, Dorothy! Come home.
Home. Never leave home without it. Home sweet home. Maybe on the mountaintop. Come to me, mountaintop. Alle, Alle, in free. Come on in. It is time to eat. Let me taste what is on that side of the plunger as I open to my truth and inject my soul with the highest lows and lowest highs. Sublime, subordinate, submissive, subhuman, subspecies, submarine, subsoldier,….submit. To yourself. For yourself. Because you need to be there so you can be gone for a while. Gone from it all. So far away the world does not understand. Only you know. Only you understand. Only you feel. It is all about you…….and you are nothing.
How was your Saturday? How was your yesterday? It snowed today. I’m down with that. Shoveled. Twice. It is covered over again. I’m down with that. The world moves right along….and I can shovel the snow, watch the snow, play in the snow….whatever. Sundays are cool. Especially when Saturdays matter. Of course, Saturdays are cool too and related to our Fridays. Et Cetera. See? I even spelled it out. Latin, ain’t it? Greek to many. Yesterday was awesome, today is awesome, tomorrow will be too. My choice. I trust my choices. Life’s a trip. I’ll send you a few postcards along the way.
~ “Snow-Shoveling is a Zen thing. I shovel snow better than Jesus.” ~
Peace, Love, Dove
Poof! The Hippie I repressed in 1969 resurrected with a vengeance. The work began in the 1960s by others became even more urgent once I came out of my coma. The writing had a purpose and followed life changes. Real changes. Across the board changes. Changes good for me and everything I touched.
Peace, Love, Dove, Motherfuckers. This writing is my fist in the air, my heart on my sleeve, and my arms linked with my comrades in arms as we change the world, beginning with ourselves.
Beautiful People
Beauty begins inside. Beauty is living our truth, sharing our gifts, showing our humanity and admitting our weaknesses while increasing our strength. Beauty grows. It shines from our soul and lights the world. Everyone can see it in our eyes, feel it in our touch, and taste it in the music of our words. We are beauty incarnate. We are angels in the flesh. We are superstars and superheroes. We ARE the beautiful people.
Live beyond what is sold and defined as beauty. Realize beauty defies shape, color, gender, race, species, and any box thought to define and thereby limit it. Beauty is life. Life is everywhere. Ergo…and ergo…..and err gone. Beauty is more than in the eye of the beholder. Beauty is the beholder and the beheld.
~ “The Mirror is how you see yourself.” ~
Beauty Full
I see your beauty and shall see your beauty long after the sands of my hourglass crystallize into the jewel of nothingness. Your beauty feeds my soul. It shines when you touch another with it. Your eyes shine when you see the beauty that surrounds you. It transcends the forces of humanity that would deny it. It survives the ravages of illness, age, and even death. I see it beneath your dress, undress, flesh, blood, and bone for that is where it lives. There is the womb of your truest beauty for any that see it. I see it even inside me for that is where your beauty is understood first. You are beautiful long before I see how beautiful you truly are. You are beautiful long before you see how beautiful you truly are.
Your beauty is there even when you do not feel it. At your weakest, it waits within for it is strength. When you are in the darkness of hate, it loves. It is stronger than the wars within and without that would deny it in yourself and even others. It came with you at birth and will be here when your flesh is no more. I see it in you and all that I see. I see it in those that are at that next place and those that will see this place when I forgotten. I feel it without seeing it and feel it even more having seen it. Thank you for filling my world with beauty.
~ “Without everyone else, I would be all alone ~
Greasy Burgers
Watched the oil slick head for the coast and realized I should have become a vegetarian sooner. Welcome to my trail of convoluted logic along the path of perpetual growth. BP slicks up the Gulf of Mexico and I am glad I don’t eat burgers any more. Follow along. Follow the bouncing ball, keep your hands and feet inside the ride at all times, and don’t take any wooden nickels. I will connect the dots because it is something I do. Connecting the dots was what made me a vegetarian in the first place. Forget what the song says about sorry……..Hamburger is the hardest word. At least for this come to the party late, new wave embracing, spiritual whore, vegetarian.
I still like Hamburgers. There, I said it. Admitted it. Hamburgers still appeal. The smell of them. The memory of them. With Fries. Put a slice of Jersey tomato on it and get out of my way. Still lust a bit for them. Other meat is a take it or leave it lust. Hamburgers still call to me with a come hither, you know you remember, kinda appeal. Haven’t had one for a bunch of years but they were and are still loved. Just not enough to let oil wash up on the Gulf Coast.
Connected the dots, slower than I like to admit and with a stubborn streak that bordered on insanity, about what I eat and its effect on the environment, even the environment outside my bathroom, years ago. Want to say it was easy but that would not be the truth. Want to say I did it at exactly the right time but know now I should have done it sooner. But I did connect my own dots and changed my daily choices. Thanks to the guidance of some Wise Womyn, Their persistence and faith in me, and several important books, I finally accepted the consequences of my everyday impact on the world. Had to read “The Mad Cowboy”, “Fast Food Nation”, and many others before I really made the changes needed. I digested the “Inconvenient Truth” I had to accept. Had to understand how what I ate was mass produced, how much grain was consumed to produce those burgers, and what was used to keep up with the demands of me and all the others me’s out there. Slowly but surely, I faced the truth and changed. My hamburgers are not worth the rain forests.
That helped me connect other dots. The choice to be vegetarian begat other choices. A watershed moment as I backed away from the burgers, albeit reluctantly. Soon, other things….other daily choices……were peeled back. I guess what I eat did and does affect my judgment. Soon, there were other changes. Even bigger ones but somehow they seemed easier after the hamburger moved from my digestive tract of life. I saw other things clearer. Made changes that, in hindsight, stun me. Stun me on the level of change as well as how long it took me to get a clue.
So the oil slick heads to the coast. Fingers point, as usual. Cleanup efforts kick into gear, as usual. The couldas, wouldas, and shouldas make their appearance, as usual. I think of my hamburgers and am glad I walk more than I ride now. Am glad public transportation is a part of my regiment. Like that my bike days are back. Will think of the birds and sea life that are a few gallons further from danger as I pedal. Maybe a few gallons isn’t that big a deal in the grand scheme of things but still feels good to me. Heck, a few less gallons here and a few less gallons there means a few less barrels and maybe a few less oil platforms and a few less spills and …you get the idea. Walking and riding a bike suddenly feels more right. Feels good as I do it. Better than a hamburger on the best of days.
Ate a lot of burgers in my days. Should have eaten a few less a bit sooner. Still, I am where I am and did what I did and do what I can do. Am glad my days produce more joy and consume less stuff. Hope we move to where the demand for oil puts off shore drilling in the “there’s no money in it” category. We drive them to drill. We can walk away from it when we choose. I chose. The spill just reminds me why. Meanwhile, I hope the cleanup goes well and some more dots get connected.
~ “Make it profitable and they will come.” ~
Department of Approved Addictions
711 Avenue of the Americas
Washington, D. C. 20534
Congratulations, Citizen
Your request to be addicted to Possessions has been approved. Based on the information you submitted and data we gathered from several government and government related services, you are also pre-approved for addictions to Power and Prestige. Trends show that addiction to possessions dramatically increases prestige as well as power. It is our hope that you use your addiction often and wisely.
Data shows that, after government expenditures, citizens addicted to Possessions, Prestige, and Power generate well over 65% of the Gross National Product of the United States. We need citizens that value consumerism and the image America portrays to the world. In these times of world instability, continued spending and accumulation of wealth will ensure our economy remains strong regardless of world conditions.
Please know that our agency works hand in hand with other government agencies each day to ensure you have the much needed access to credit to further your continually improving lifestyle. We work directly with banks and mortgage institutions to encourage expanded credit markets and easy access to shopping experiences.
Your tax records, mailing history, organizations aligned to report, credit rating, internet postings and usage, and travel history all indicate a person that understands the American way of life. We do caution that some of your postings on Facebook and MySpace, although harmless, have been flagged for further monitoring.
Please feel free to contact us for any questions you might have about how to escalate your spending even more. We will send a series of websites including Amazon, Wal-Mart, Expedia, Travelocity, American Express, Lexus, and others as well as information on small business, school, home, and bill consolidation loans that will help. All of these links and information are also available at the Department of Approved Addictions, DOA.GOV. Thank you and congratulations.
Pat Smith, Agent 752500
Department of Approved Addictions
~ “When purse strings rule heart strings, we are poor.” ~
Outside
We invited it into our home and embraced it. It brought us laughter, music, news, information, and people that we knew better than we knew our neighbors. Its name is Television…we tend to call it TV. The Guide helped us plan and know. It was the center of our attention in the living room and eased into the bedroom before we knew it. It linked us to the neighbors and helped us bond to people at work and in schools and at church in ways unique to a new generation. It became the glue of our world community and our friend when we just needed to relax. I am a child of Television. Beaver was one of my childhood buddies, Roy was my model for purity and goodness, and the West was more alive on that black and white screen than it was in any textbook. TV was, arguably, the most important aspect of our lives besides immediate family.
The world we knew was shaped by television. We ran to it in times of crisis to know what was happening out there. Out there in the world. In the world where other people from other towns and states and countries ran to their televisions to know. In the world where the faces on that screen became the way we learned and who we heard and what we did as a result. TV is the world we knew, much of the world we know, and changed the world we live in. We consumed TV and the things it showed us and promised us.
It begat other things that took television to new levels. VCRS to watch when we wanted and watch what we wanted. We controlled the schedule and could fast forward by choice. Computers began as brains and machines but became important when they felt more like televisions to us. YouTube….ah, the merger of the old world and the new that creates an even newer world. A world that can defy governments, elect presidents, and cross time and space. All those things….better and quicker than anything prior. All that. Right inside that little box that now moves with us while we venture outside for coffee or a burger. The World is at our fingertips…inside our very home, inside our very room, and inside our very existence.
Outside. That place where you have to go sometimes. Going out in the car and to the stores and to school and things…those are okay. Otherwise though, why bother? Out there only keeps you from in here. Thank goodness of IPods and laptops and WiFi. Out there feels a bit better with more of in here out there.
Some people go out there just because. They just sit and look at things. Notice the clouds and the ants and other people and tons of useless crap. They go out there looking for things to do when all the things to do are right here. Games to play, movies to watch, tons of things to read on the Net, and TV if nothing else feels good.
The food is nearby. Out there, you either have to bring it with you or find a place to buy it and then decide if you eat it there or in the car or somewhere else. Some folks bring it back here. That is pretty cool. Quick out and back with fresh grub. Delivery would be better but sometimes it is alright to go out and get the stuff. Easier if someone brings it to you.
Folks have to go out there. For school and work and to do errands and stuff. Let them. Me? I am staying right here….and getting back here as quick as I can whenever I have to go out there…which is less and less. My world is right here. Nothing for me out there. Where’s the remote? Looking for the remote…that is where they are.
We channel surf away from reality. There is a manic-depressive nature to our attention span as they dig bodies from rubble and, a flick of the wrist later, dive into discussions about Mariah’s Golden Globes. We are offered the chance to donate our change to the Red Cross for Haiti as we spend six dollars on a cup of coffee. This is beyond Yin-Yang. This is imbalance. Evidence screams into the silence before the on-coming storm.
~ “My life is its own reality show.” ~
Connect The Dots
Dots can come and go. Let someone else connect them. I did my share. Likely more than my share. Connecting the dots was my thing. Quite frankly, I was damn good at it.
Connect the dots, la, la, la.
Now the dots are many and it is easy to connect them. To see where they go and the picture they form and the path that is the point of the dots in the first place. That is actually easy. Very easy. The dots are many.
Dot. Dot. Dot.
I shall not dash to connect them. They gather and I see them and know them and understand where they could lead. They can lead to wondrous places. Amazing places. Brilliant pictures that constellation all around me. Yes, they could. I shall see the star of each one.
See the gathering of them. Know there is one there and one there and another over there and a cluster of them over there. Dots so close together there is a milky way of answers that dot my horizons. Dots can come and go.
Someone will connect them. Already has. I just get to watch and do and be in the show that is somehow known and will work out better than anything I could have connected, since the dots I see are but a few of the multitude of wonders that shine as the Wheel of Fortune spins.
Dots connect themselves once we let them. I will let them. La. La. La.
~ “The older I get, the more wisdom I see in respecting our elders.” ~
Enough Rhymes With Enough
The poet wants to say something soft and easy of this sadness that nibbles at my light. Right now, I don’t need my poet. He cries too much lately. I want to be pissed and that ain’t poetic. It is human. Real human. Real human to see through the bullshit others put on your shoes and call it yours.
Tears have their place. This ain’t the place. This is the place to see through the crap and know that claiming to take the higher road and do the right thing while being self-indulgent and manipulative does not fool. This is the place to see the whining and blame and pity and hate for what they are….weakness of a spirit that points the finger of fault rather than looking in the mirror and saying I fucked this up and have to get better.
Victims love dancing around the maypole of blame and hurting others because they are hurt. Tears have their place. Bullshit flags have their place. Addicts say that if you go to a barber shop, you are getting a haircut. When you hang around people that want the world to be their way….either bend over and be what they want or walk the fuck away.
Turn that into a poem if you can. Me? Enough rhythms with enough. Adios…I wish you the best. I am better than dancing in a shit storm and trying to feel clean.
~ “Wherever I go, there I am.” ~
Worthy
Kneel to your Master. Crawl forth to the almighty dollar and surrender your worth. Ensure you show your gifts for then you may be valued and the Lord may allow you to travel and be with the Chosen Ones. The Master may allow you to be one of the elite. To live among them…safe from the rabble.
Come. Kiss the feet and beg for your portion. Give your time. Demonstrate your obedience. Give deeper obedience and be granted more worth. Accrue. Invest. Increase. More will come as you show your worth in the ways of the marketplace. More will be yours to give to those you love.
The Master is generous to those that give. You do not want to feel the worthlessness of being without the Master. Put the Master before your family and you will be granted great riches that will be theirs in your memory. Put your service to the Master before yourself and the Master will tend to the wreckage as your frail body crumbles to nothingness. Health is in your Master’s hands. Wealth is in your Master’s hands. The Master’s measure is your gauge for all things. The Master determines the worthy and the worthless. If it does not come from the Master, it has no worth.
Beware of the hands out. Hands that fail to serve the Master and expect your rewards to be theirs. Hands that have not sacrificed as you have. Hands that will drain your worth later when you need it the most. Beware of them for they will pull you down to their level. They would have you depend on others. Beware for they have not earned. They do not understand. They have not paid their dues. They expect a portion of what is yours and there is not enough to go around.
Come to the Master. Learn the skills to move above the place of your parents. Rise to ever better places and have ever better things. Please the Master and let the world see what you have amassed. Let them witness your good fortune and see it in the riches and pleasures that are yours because you live life on your Master’s terms. Come. Kneel so that you may find the peace that is yours when you have the worth that only money can buy. Come. Kneel. Show that you have learned the ways of your God. You have nothing to give unless it comes from the Master. Come and feel your place of peace.
~ “Did I really hear someone thanking God for their new car with heated seats??” ~
Elitists
I am revolted. At myself. At deep questions about when I let America become so elitist. When did money become the fix to everything? When did we become the nation that is motivated by money and all that generates money? When we did we bow to green and put it before red, white, and blue?
We priced the common people out of politics and into one vote is your voice and your only voice. We listen to the voice of the top money earners and then wonder why the government protects businesses over people. When did I let that happen? When did Washington begin to represent itself and Wall Street rather than the American people?
Egypt opened my eyes. I heard America and Washington show itself to the world and I did not like what I heard and saw. America backed Mubarak not because of what he was but because of what he was not. He was not a fundamentalist Muslim. I let that happen. We pump money into rulers and governments that treat their people like shit and then we call ourselves an example of Democracy. The evidence embarrasses me. I feel like I owe the world an apology.
One statement jumped out at me the other day. It was on CBS and spoke about the events in Egypt and said they “could validate American values but undercut American interests.” What the hell? When did I let our interests come before our values? Then today on CBS again someone said, “We have to know what freedom looks like before we can back freedom.” What the fuck!?
Somewhere along the way, I let America become elitist. Our government fears Muslim rule and supports governments that are unchristian in their actions. Gotta love that irony. We speak about separation of church and state and base policy decisions on a fear of Muslim beliefs. When did that happen? When we did we bow to green and then decide the world must be Christian before we trust it? When did I let that happen?
CBS was right. Events in the Middle East could validate our values but undercut American interests. Time to change our interests. CBS was right. We have to know what freedom looks like before we can back freedom. Freedom looks like Egypt and the people saying the government IS the people. CBS was right. I just didn’t like hearing the news.
Hello, Citizens of the World, I’m Gil. I speak my truth, clean up my own messes, and love the world. I celebrate my freedom and honor yours. I will kill if I need to and pray I never need to. I am your neighbor and you are mine. I will hold Washington to a higher standard because that is my right as an American. In fact, that is my duty as an American. It is my duty as a citizen of the world.
Thanks Egyptians for the example of what real people can do that governments cannot……we can change quickly and move into the future trusting one another. Thanks for reminding me what the American Revolution was all about……..people. People just wanting to be free and wanting everyone to be free. What a cool concept. What an even cooler reality. I do know what freedom looks like. I saw it on the streets of Cairo on February 11, 2011.
~ “Declare yourself and your vote. Write in your choice.” ~
Funk-y
I was in a funk for the last few days. Still am. Most of those around me sense it. I know I sense it. It has a root. A catalyst. Actions that ignited it. Pain. Another’s pain and I felt it and still do. Yet, that is not an excuse for a funk. I processed and analyzed and probed. Needed to understand the lessons in the funk. The poet loves the funk. It is easy to write in the dark. Suffering makes for sweet words and music. In that cage of suffering is growth so I whore there and wallow there and howl at the moon in thanks.
Deeper and deeper I went. Understanding even better the catalyst and opening to global learning. Thought about Jewish Nazis and felt the fear that would drive such actions. Understand the lessons in feeling how fear can drive someone to deny their very truth and how that denial can become so true that the truth becomes the lie. Felt that and learned from it.
Still the funk remained. Then I realized the Teacher did what the Teacher does not permit the students to do. The Teacher made the processing about others. The lessons about the catalyst were learned. The global lessons were felt. The funk remained. The funk is a choice. Someone else’s pain and funk is mine when I choose to make it mine. Then it is my pain and my funk and that is about me. Focusing on them and the global lessons is indeed learning. It is not what the funk is about…the funk is about something I have to process and know and own. The funk is me. I guide others to face that truth. That is a lesson for the Teacher. I shall feel what drives the funk…because I am the engine. When it comes to working through funks, I am the little engine that could…and will. Choo-choo.
~ “Sometimes it ain’t easy being me.” ~
The Man In My Garden
There was man working in my garden this morning. He looked familiar but I did not truly know him. He rose late when in old times he would have been up and well at things hours before he arrived in the garden. He moved to the work slowly. A time spent just looking and feeling. Much different than the man he was long ago.
Things waited for him. Taxes a month after due and still not done called unheeded by a man that was on time and early for decades before this day. Words sat in the birth canal of creation while he planted seeds in new ways that felt old and true. People reached and wondered for he was in the garden but absent from places of the norm. He was behind schedule and that felt long overdue. I watched him. Puzzled by this strange creature toiling in the earth.
He paused and ate. Then did some more. He paused and watched. Then did some more. He finished the plan and then did some more. He sat and watched as chores done moved minutes and then hours behind him. Morning eased to noon and noon eased to the after part of noon and he remained in the Garden. So much to do and he heeded none of it. It was a man in the garden as the garden claimed the man.
There was a man working in my garden this morning. He is new to me but I kinda like him. The Garden has much ahead but nourishes well before the first bloom. There was a man working in my garden this morning and I plan to know him more tomorrow and the day after that and beyond. He knows things I have yet to understand. He is a Teacher. I am a student. I learn by letting him be. He is different. Different feels a bit easier after time in the garden.
~ “Crickets heartbeat the night.” ~
Had Enough?
Had enough tragedy? I have. More than enough. Here are some facts, boys and girls. If that had been a solar array rather than a nuclear plant, it would have been inconvenient. If those were windmills, the recovery would be way cleaner. WAY CLEANER. We are about to out-trump nature again in dealing out catastrophe. We are about to make bad, worse…….again. Yet…..a how long will we care about what people are living with as a consequence? How many have to die this time to have us say no to nuclear and oil with all its tentacles and mean it? How long will we care? Will we actually do anything to change? Will this be the enough is enough one?
Remember the Gulf of Texaco? Ohhhhhh, the tragedy. Ohhhhhhh, the greed. Ohhhhhhhh, the voices of righteous indignation as warnings were suppressed by the bottom line. Oh, look. Charlie Sheen is having a meltdown. Have you seen the new IPad? We are mastered by a slight of hand that distracts from reality right until reality crashes through the haze and reminds us the world is in danger. I am embarrassed at how much we say and how little we actually do. That is how little we do that actually matters. Chernobyl. Three Mile Island. Exxon Valdez. BP. The hits just keep on coming. War for Oil? Mining disasters? Backing despots to keep the oil flowing? Sure……good for the economy though…..lots of jobs and money to spend. Gotta make it to work. Right?
We need changes. Now. Changes that will transform our man-made tragedies into inconveniences rather than repetitions of helplessness and greed. Solar and Wind energy solutions. Public transportation over private consumption. Local markets rather than mass distribution centers. Saving versus borrowing. Repairing rather than replacing.
We, the People of the Planet, must lead. In example of how we treat ourselves and our neighbors. In example of how we live and honor all life. In example of how we fit into the ecosystem. We are the answer and must be the example. Now.
We need natural energy sources more and less energy consumption by each of us to balance supply and demand. We need more transportation that brings us together in the act of travel and less transportation that separates us from our neighbors, neighborhood, and world. We must experience life in our homes and share it with the world. We must live locally and feel globally.
The changes must touch all aspects of life. Each purchase, each meal, each outing, each celebration, each choice. Schools. Parks. All aspects of Community. A Global Citizenship linked across the planet. Every day.
Tsunamis, earthquakes, volcanoes, hurricanes, tornados are forces of nature. Energy choices that put people at risk are within our control. We can change them now. Right now. Even while the scope of what happens in Japan is revealed. We owe them that. We owe their children and our children that. We owe seven generations from seven generations from now that. We must change. We must learn. We must act.
~ “The Wake-Up call is very alarming.” ~
Shroud
I can shoot pain from my fingertips. Today just isn’t the day. Today, I am inside my shroud. A shroud of feeling. Empathy is like that. You feel…yourself, others, and more. For years, I resisted Empathy. Thought it more curse than blessing. Now it is as common as breathing.
Shrouds cover. That is the purpose. There is a shroud today. Arrived a day or so ago and will remain until it chooses otherwise. When shrouds arrive, it initially frustrates. Feels like a stall…a disconnect. Bondage of a sort. I buck a bit but ultimately accept there are things to feel under the shroud.
Spring is just out of reach. Winter is just out of embrace. That is part of it.
Global shifts are part of it. More and more feel the linkage of more and more. That is part of it.
We sent a hero into the belly of the beast of our making and he has disappeared. That is part of it.
All those things and more are part of it. I can shoot pain from my fingertips. The show is delayed on account of shroud.
~ “I can usually feel you long before I touch you.” ~
Sense Or?
I learned by watching Congress as they read the Constitution to begin their session the other day. It was bit theatrical but still a good reminder of why they are there. They chose to edit a bit. To censor a few words that were accurate at the time of penning yet not indicative of our current truth. Words that had to do with slavery. In a related story, a college professor issues an edited version of Tom Sawyer to remove the n-word.
There were several articles as folks weighed in on if these things should be done or not. Me? Tempest in a teapot discussions. Changing words because time changed is a slippery slope. Let’s say what it is true, be cognizant of the power of those words, and let the truth evolve as we evolve.
Seems easier to me. Read what was written, understand what it meant at the time, and what it means about who we are now in comparison. I honor the past and accept as the past. Besides, I am lazy. If we censor words about slavery and that it existed, soon others will want to change things. All men are created equal? Still true or a period piece? Under God? Wow. Who opened this can of worms?
~ “Looking forward to the day when “Washington Represents You” sounds good again.” ~
Dark Side Rebuttal
I wondered about the ones that had their way so long and how they feel about things today. All this hope must grate on them. All these people feeling all this joy must rankle them. All this talk of change and questions about why things are like they are must aggravate them.
I listened to a few speeches by Cynthia McKinney and re-visited Thoreau. Then I thought of them...the ones that must be afraid right now that this is all true...the ones that likely hope this is all a dream. Here is their rebuttal:
You ask dangerous questions.
Be sure you know what you do.
Big wheels keep on turning.
The machine’s a lot bigger than you.
Site levees and children and hunger.
Say leaders have hands in the till.
Rise to a place of importance.
Just be sure to update your will.
You question a billion a day.
Go green and find success there.
We’ll make you just go away.
People will ask, we don’t care.
Link what is now to old bullets.
Be careful at the things that you say.
Your speeches are pleading for action.
More people are leaning your way.
Beware the industrial complex.
Check the brakes on your car.
Just cause your man is in the round office.
Don’t think we have fallen far.
They’ll march and applaud from the sidelines.
Have hope that new laws will be passed.
Then they’ll go home in their Beemers.
Buying new things with our cash.
The whores are beyond your redemption.
Preach and do the best that you can.
We outlasted the brothers and Martin.
We’ll kick your ass in the end.
~ “Actually, no you won’t. Bend over, bozos. It’s Our turn.” ~
Radical
I feel radical. Questioning core things. There is a peace in this radical revisit to why and what and who. I see the how and honor it. I look towards the when and accept it. All that we need will be with us and waits for us.
Deep questions. Questions are what I do know and should know. Questions that see through institutions and processes and more. Questions that are mine to answer and live. Questions that I see others ask and answer in their ways. I move beyond the stun of how much I accepted and into the stun of how much I trust.
Tribe has called to me for years now. I thought it was something waiting. Something forming. Now I see it is and was and will be. It just waited for me to hear and feel and trust.
There are tentacles that hold and hope to slow. I smile and accept the frustration as the desperation it is. I am a neophyte in self-sufficiency and impact and resistance and trust. That changes and will change even faster and even more. Radically so.
~ “We are a “but” ruled species.” ~
Dollars or Change?
My re-evaluation of self continues. Deep at the core. I heard the movie announcer’s voice today, the gentleman that did all those voice-overs for movies that passed away. He voiced the questions I asked deep within so it sounded like the coming attractions. What if everything you ever knew was wrong? What if your very world crumbled to ashes before your very eyes? See what happens when the cornerstone of Your American Dream becomes the very source of its demise!
Hopefully, you get the basic idea. I revisit self and go to core and then go to core again. For the last few weeks and even more so for the last few days…and today is another day of deep questioning. Today I held my concept of money to the light of truth and saw the fatal flaws.
The core of how I valued things was money. The more I had, the better I felt. The more I made, the more successful I was. The more things I could buy, the more I knew life was good. More meant more and less meant less. That changes now. Less is more. I begin to see anew. Truth was the more I made the less time I had.
Ask someone what they wish they had more of and most people would say time. They often link it to money and say if I had more money I would take some time off. I would garden if I had the time. I had more time, I would visit my folks, spend time with my kids and grandkids, read more, travel more, etc. If I had more money I could do that.
Where does the time go? Quite frankly, it goes to the pursuit of money. Our time goes to working so we pay the bills, pay the taxes, buy things, afford travel and toys, and much, much more. We give our time to get money. Money is the basis of our very existence.
We see it in the year of the car we drive. We see it even more clearly in the year of the cars others drive. It is the gauge of success. It is the gauge of worth. It is the gauge of security. It is the gauge of safety. It is the thing we seek most as we live the American Dream.
This journey of self has me look right in the mirror and see how much I overvalued money. It truly became my gauge for far too much. Money is the tool and, somewhere along the way, it became the need. We put it away for a rainy day. We watch with great interest to see it grow. We negotiate to spend less of it and make more of it. We spend it to buy things to prove our love and sense of giving.
As a male, money has even more meaning. Money is power. Without it, we feel emasculated. Have the lady pay the bill for dinner and something deep inside a male feels her heel over him. Have a female pay for a trip for a male and most males immediate figure out how to ensure she is compensated in some way. Money has become a gender based thing and males need it to feel powerful.
Money. It drove my decision process, was the cornerstone of my sense of worth, gauged my judgments of self and others, and accepted my enslavement even when I did not know it mastered me. Money. Things are about to change.
~ “Abnormal reported as normal becomes truth.: ~
Bumper Sticker This!
It’s official. I tried to think in Bumper Stickers. Had deep and wonderful thoughts about how we must feel and remember our yesterdays. Bring them forward in lessons learned and things celebrated. Looking there for blame and excuses is the mirror that avoids putting our face to what created today. If today is fucked up, I let it happen. You let it happen. We let it happen. We made it happen. Yesterday and the day before and the day before that. My today is the sum total of my yesterdays and everything I did, failed to do, should have done, shouldn’t have done, didn’t know I did, knew I shouldn’t have and did anyway….all that happy horseshit that flows out our mouths when we chase the tales of our yesterdays. Want to know what got you the way you are? You did. Yesterday. Face it. Get over with it. Get on with it. Treasure your yesterdays. Just don’t spend a hell of a lot time there. They’re over!
Then I thought about my tomorrows. Our tomorrows. My kids and grandkids and their kids and grandkids and all their tomorrows. There will be a lot more tomorrows than just mine. I have zero control about how many. I might be dead before I finish typing this sentence. Might be dead as you read it. Zero control over that. Yet, my tomorrows are effected by everything I do today. Everything. If I drive when I could have walked or waste shit because I have extra and can just buy more. If I sit on my ass and watch life rather than live it. All the things I do today directly affect my tomorrows. It also effects your tomorrows. The stuff you do today effects my tomorrows too and I have zero control over that. I do control what I do today and that has to be enough cause I am just one person. I will support those that make the choices I think are right for all our tomorrows. The rest of you? Wake up. Everything you do today affects us all so live like you have a damn clue, will you? I ain’t wasting my time and energy trying to show you how far up your ass you have your head. The world is fucked up and that is because of our yesterdays. Today, we fix it or fuck it up more. Me? I am fixing it. I am glad if you are, too. We will have better tomorrows once we have better todays.
Today is what we have. It is all we have. If it is fucked up, we did that yesterday and have to do stuff different right now. What we do today matters. Forever. That is the truth. Every single thing we do today matters. What we say, do, think, eat, feel, touch, share, sing, kill, hug, breathe, fuck, kiss, hurt, heal, forgive, read, watch, wear, wash, clean, cuddle, love, hate, and any other action, reaction, or inaction that we live. Today is when we save the world we screwed up, improve the world we saved, and change the world we want tomorrow. Today is what we have. Yesterday’s gone, tomorrow ain’t here, and now is what we have.
I walked and had those thoughts and tons of others. Tried to get it to a sound bite. A bumper sticker oozing with message, positivity, and depth. Something catchy, politically correct, and quick. “Treasure yesterdays, value tomorrows, and own today”. Maybe “Yesterday’s gone, tomorrow’s watching, and today is here.” So many possibilities. So many clever and right ways to get the word out there. To touch folks that hear and maybe ever a few that need that one nudge to really change. I wanted the Bumper sticker.
What the hell is that about? We are way beyond the bumper sticker stage. If you haven’t got the message by now, you need the bumper sticker on a train that runs you over to get your attention. No more bumper stickers. (Alright…a few more….but just because sometimes I like them.). If you can fit your message on a bumper sticker or a placard, run for office because some people believe in placards, sound bites, and one vote is all it takes to save the world.
I tried to think bumper sticker thoughts today. That is soooooooo yesterday. Retro, my ass. Let’s live today like it matter tomorrow. Cause it does.
If you are still reading, thanks. If you aren’t, cool. I can’t reach people who don’t read and think and do….don’t want to. My reach only goes so far. Meanwhile, I will be doing what I do and that matters tomorrow so I better do it right today,
“Tomorrow will be a lot better if we do the right things together today.” Kinda catchy, ain’t it? That won’t fit on a bumper sticker but that’s alright with me. We need less bumpers anyway. Remember, I was walking when all these thoughts flowed. Walking is a good thing….today and tomorrow. Try it. Please! Leave your bumper stickers home. Bumper stickers ain’t the target audience anymore. That’s a road too well traveled.
~ “When did speak your piece become in your face and then up your ass?” ~
Change
Knock, Knock.
Who’s There?
Change.
Change Who?
Change you, that’s who.
Change your locks.
Change your password.
Change your diet.
Change your banks.
Then change your underwear cause you are going to change even more.
Hope you are doing enough because we all deserve joy.
People panic all around, running from the mirror of self to avoid the forest fires that may burn their beliefs.
Some scream out their pain in blame hoping for the company of others that surrender responsibility.
Changes comes.
Messages, messengers, cosmic signs, revelations, re-evaluations, economic upheavals, political promises, system failures, terrorist attacks, wars for peace, counterinsurgency, special bulletins, bank defaults, tea parties, gay bashing, teeth gnashing, Mayan seminars, crystal skulls, chem trails, underwear bombs, full body scans, partisanship, demonstrations, recriminations, recessions, genocides, and suicides.
The word is out. Duck and cover, slash and burn, scrimp and save, gate your community, retire early, stock your larders, cash out your IRAs, short sell, long sell, re-sell, bankrupt, dig in, dig out, but dig it.
Change comes.
~ “I knocked on the door of my soul just to see who would answer.” ~
Mister President
Mister President and all the boys and girls of Congress
You are working very hard and doing your best with the job and chores I gave you. Sadly however, not much has been accomplished. While you are busy doing everything, hardly any one thing actually gets done. I know you can do better.
Please focus.
If it promotes the general welfare, it is good.
If it provides for the common defense, it is necessary.
If it means spending money we do not have, it must be very, very important or just do not do it. We just do not have any more money to spend. We had this discussion many times and I really do not want to have it again.
If it makes us good global citizens, we should do it as long as it meets the first three questions.
I am busy doing my best to make sure you are able to keep the roof over your head and have all the good stuff you already have. Help me out, please, by doing your best while I let you run the country for me. I put you in charge of all of it. Please do your best.
~Gil
~ “Make them count each vote. Write in your choice.” ~
They
They are nameless and faceless and represented by minions. They exist in policies and procedures that live beyond the reason from their creation. They are a life force of justification loosely disguised as explanation. They are questioned in increasing silence and obeyed in growing shame. Their nipple has achieved almost global dependence while their milk has turned to poison. They wave flags in answer to questions and make lists of who is naughty and nice. They reward competition and accumulation. They thrive on separation and are masters of exclusion. They panic as what they know crumbles and they reach to solve the problems with the solutions that created the destruction.
We acknowledge their existence, celebrate their achievements, and welcome them to the New World. The World of sharing and balance and inclusion. The World of hope and choices. The World of awareness, acceptance, action, and responsibility. The World of nurturing strength. The World of healing. The World of honest communication, open dialog, and mutual benefit. The World that once was and will be again.
I am We.
Who are you?
~ “Woke up behind schedule and went to sleep not done.” ~
The Shift
The shift is over. We are where we need to be. We understand our gifts and how to share them. Now to settle in and align the routine of life to the doing of what is right. What can be fixed, has been fixed. What needs tending, is being tended. What was begun is in to the beauty of the doing. All is ready. What is needed for the coming storm is where is must be for those that do. What will be needed for even more doing will be provided. This is your needed message this special day. It is what you spoke inside. This is our needed message this special day. The voice of the Gathering was heard. You are ready. The doing is yours for the doing. Settle in and be.
~ “Remember you are completely unique….just like everyone else.” ~
A Waking Wind
The land felt tired. Tired of so many taking so much. It ached and simmered with anger.
The Mississippi held part of it at bay. Still it hurt. It felt old and Gaia is timeless. Then came the water. The air was brisk and swept autumn in on wings of hope and the cycle that is the cycle of circles and connection.
The land is tired. The people begin to understand it is tired and the people begin to respond. They feel beyond their selfishness. They rise to feel the ache and they begin the one act that is the beginning of all good...they begin to question. They question the very foundation of what they have believed and they begin to wonder what has blinded them. They begin to see anew. They question...and take ownership of the question...but they also take ownership for the answer. As Pogo said, "We have met the enemy and he is us."
Welcome to the wakeup call. The land aches...and the people wake to tend it. We are the land and the land is us. A river shall not separate...a river shall bridge as we flood this land with light and hope and acceptance and love. We are the river, too.
~ “The People who do it have to do over the voices of the people who say it cannot be done.” ~
Main Street
America began on Main Street. We live on Main Street. It is the place of our hopes and dreams. Our neighbors are known and we love them. We welcome the newcomers. We honor the people that lived here before we arrived. Main Street is felt inside our homes and lived outside our homes.
We are Main Street. We live beyond our fences and yours. We share our stuff because if you need it and we have it that is the right thing to do. We might ask for a cup of sugar but that is only temporary and you can have a piece of our cake when it is ready.
Main Street is the solution. Main Street knows Wall Street better because Wall Street moved away and decided to make their own street. A Street without sharing or even caring. Main Street knows Washington and knows it is broken. Washington can’t keep its own house in order and wants us to live in fear of how broken they are. They want to carry their message to the world……….and they are. The message that Washington IS NOT Main Street. They can wrap it in a flag, salute it, cluster bomb it across the globe, and it is still wrong. We are not conquerors. We are not about war.
Main Street is about peace. We live and let live. We may think our neighbors are a bit weird at times……we may even think them wrong at times. They are still our neighbors. Wall Street wants their money. Washington wants their respect. We want them happy and at peace. We want to smile when we see them headed to worship and have them smile when they see us being whatever the hell we are.
America began on Main Street. That is where it will rise again from the ashes of this shit storm of fear and nothingness that Washington and Wall Street are spreading across the world and right into our back yard.
We are stronger than darkness, fear, and hate. We will survive. We will make things right. We are Main Street….a place where dreams are born and lived. Welcome to the neighborhood.
You are my neighbor and I love you. I am Main Street. So are you.
~ “Don’t expect to be treated Athenian while acting Spartan.” ~
Hippie Movement
Frontlines change. Sidelines complain. Headlines remain.
Soldiers defend countries. Citizens change the world.
The Hippies are hip to it now. We lived the 60s and turn 60. We had it right. Let’s get it right.
We lost the war. We traded boardwalks for boardrooms. We picked stocks over picket lines. We deserted Main Street for two car garages and chicken delivered rather than pot. We trumped the Jones and now we are Jonesing.
The children are watching. The grandchildren are watching. Seven Generations is more than a product line. Wow, is it two into seven already? We slept through how many alarms? Can’t complain to the management…….we ARE the management. How’d we manage that? Well, evidently not too well.
Lots at stake. Lots for sale. Lots sold out. We brought in. We gave ourselves too much credit. Way too much credit. Time to save. To save ourselves. To save the world we put in intensive care. We are the Doctors so quit the bellyaching. Aches and pains. Acres of pain as acres of nature fell to our need for speed. We fought the law and the law won. Almost. We became the law. We became the establishment. We out establishmented the establishment. We waged and waged and waged. We gave away peace for a piece of the dream. Wake up, lovechildren. Wake up and make sure you are heard rather than herd. Rule. We rule. We rock. Rock on. Lock and load. All we are saying is Give Peace a Chance. Now!
Peace, Love, Dove, Motherfuckers.
We’re baaaaaaaacck.
~ “Write in your voice—Write in your vote.” ~
Write-In
My vote counts. That is why I am writing-in my vote in the next presidential election. It is my decision. It is only one vote but it is my vote. My voice to the Washington that listens to others long before they hear what I have to say. I will write-in my vote as a statement that it was my decision about the individual that represents me as President. My vote is my voice……and my voice will be heard and known long before one vote on one day in one election. My vote is merely part of my voice. You are hearing it now. Suggest you remember it because it is here every day inside of me. Now…..about my vote.
It might be a Democrat. It might be a Republican. It might be something else. Might be a man. Might be a woman. It will be a person that will go to Washington to lead. To set the example for those in Washington and everyone that looks to Washington as representative of this country to the world. They will be the best choice I can make based on the information I gather and evaluate.
I live beyond party. I live beyond interest group. I live beyond pay-offs and payola. I will not be bought and sold with a sound-bite, a glad hand, and any damn poll. My vote is not based on fear or greed. It is based on hope and civic responsibility. I paid my dues and will be heard. One vote. One voice. A voice that says what I do is good enough for me and it is good enough for the world. I look to Washington to follow my example. They will know I am here and that I can and will survive them at their weakest but hope they are at the best someday again soon. My vote matters…..to me. That is why I will base it on what is best for me and the world I touch every day.
Almost started a group. League of American Voters. Something. We don’t need another stinking group. We need a lot of ones. One vote people. One voice people. Their own voice. We are nation of ones. One people. People that decide. People that lead. People that know they do matter and are willing to let Washington hear us. Write-in. Righting. Right-on. Left wing, right wing, anything but broken wings and broken promises. We promise to do our best and vote like it matters because it does. I can write-in my vote, write them off, and write them out anytime because……my voice is loud and clear to me and will be loud and clear to them forever.
My next President is a write-in. I will put you on the ballot…even if someone else put you there first. My vote will be a write-in because I am more than a follower….more than a flip of a switch. That is my message, Washington. So…..show me what ya got, boys and girls. You better start doing better than you are and have been.
I am writing-in my vote in 2012 and will know who I will vote for when I walk into the booth. Between now and then, I will watch what Washington does and vote based on performance rather than promise. I am an independent voter and the political parties lost my respect. They will hear my voice though……in the voting booth….or sooner if need be. My vote still matters……..my voice is much louder than one vote though and that is what they will know forevermore. Election day is just one day when I matter….I matter every day and that is my message to anyone anywhere.
~ “Right in their face—Write in your vote” ~
State Of The Union
Ladies and Gentlemen of Congress. Citizens of America. I still believe we can. I have learned much about the process of government here in Washington and am ready to move forward in leading this country for the people who elected me to do so.
I am not satisfied with what has been accomplished and the days ahead will capitalize on what I promised as well as well what I must do to lead this country.
Our enemies will be tracked down wherever they may hide. We are a nation with eyes on the olive branch and arrows at the ready. We hope that arrows will become the path least chosen and will do our best to ensure the olive branch is the preferred option on this planet.
The world will know that America is a country of greatness that focuses on a global community. We will reduce our nuclear stockpile, increase our usage of renewable resources, and help foster equal rights and fairness for our citizens and our allies. My Administration will continue the effort to help stabilize the Mid-East and areas where freedoms are threatened and even attacked.
My major focus for change will be at home. The American people deserve financial freedom and everyday peace of mind. American business deserves and needs the ability to do what it does best…..provide high quality goods and services produced by skilled and dedicated workers. It is my responsibility to provide for the common defense and promote the general welfare.
I am sending Congress my bill that will change the Income Tax to a flat tax on income and sales. Ten Percent. The Tax Code will be simple. Income taxed at 10 Percent. Sales of goods and services taxed at 10 Percent. In that regard, the Internal Revenue Service will be reduced by 80 percent by 2012 when the new Tax laws go into effect. A one paged tax form for each business. A one paged tax form for each citizen.
The document will be sent to Congress by this Friday. I want it voted on as is. This is part of my American Citizen Financial Freedom program. The bill will be sent to Congress for voting and the results of the voting will be provided, in detail, to the American public. Let them decide if we are doing the right thing.
Congress will also receive my bill to revise the Health Care Act. I am scrapping the existing proposal. My new proposal takes Medicare and applies to all government employees and elected officials, myself included. Under my bill, employers are to provide the medical insurance of their choosing to employees. If they do not, they may buy into Medicare for each of their employees to ensure each employee is covered. The fee for each employee will be the same nationwide should Medicare be the preferred option. This bill is also part of my American Citizen Financial Freedom program and I want Congress vote on as is. Again, let the citizens decide if we are doing the right thing.
Meanwhile, I am working on our National Transportation system. We have focused too much on one mode of transportation with our attention on the automobile. I am working to ensure that our national resources go to the most common good. The American public deserves the ability for mobility and that can be accomplished in many ways. We have over complicated the issue and become myopic in our approach to solutions.
My emphasis for change right now will be on revising the tax code and the health care system to free industry to focus on creating competitive goods and service and thus jobs. We will use all our existing resources to work on going issues in the nation and around the world while addressing these two big changes and preparing for more in the days and months ahead.
We can do this. I shall do my part. I shall lead. Thank you and good night.
~ “Honor my twenty-eight years in uniform, Washington. Let’s make peace as well as we have war. Even better.” ~
Part Here—More There
Now, we get to the point. I am a spiritual being. It is my core. A Divine slave to my own Higher Power. Yet my roots are still strong. As a recovering Catholic, it took me a while to realize Jesus was my friend. A very real friend. As one who serves the Goddess and is of the Feminine, that balance was achieved with lots of soul searching. Here is the tale of my understanding my here and my hereafter.
River of Pain
There is a path on the other side of the River of Pain. Took a while to see it. Took a while to see anything but the pain of the crossing. See is not the right word. Feel is the right word. Took a while to feel anything but the pain.
I don’t remember leaving the river. The pain surrounded. Imbedded by the feel of it. The river almost drowned me long after I was on the land. Then there was the glimpse of hope. A path. On this side of the pain. Off the map. Yet there it was. Marked? More scarred upon the mountain. Perhaps that is the mark. Clearly marked by the scars of those that came before. Those that swam through the pain before and left clues to the right way to journey upward. Yes. They scarred their souls to push through the façade and reveal their truth. They marked their way on the knees in thanks and fear and pain and more. Yes, they found the way. It was here all along. On the other side of the River of Pain.
Golden nuggets of truth scattered all over the clearing. The place of respite after swimming the fires of hell that is border between the marked path and the true path. I saw their glitter and felt their call. A field of Fortune Cookies spread by the explosion of wisdom that is the war within each of us.
“Abundance is better understood within scarcity.” I had to smile. Yes! More over there is less over here. Yes! I pocketed the rock and reached for another.
“Unconditional is sweetened by tasting conditions.” Tears fell from my face and washed away the trail dust. A kiss to the nugget warmed my lips as sure as any flesh of any joy. It was still in my hand and my heart as well as my mind as I reached in thirst for the next nectar.
“Needs are revealed once wants are unmasked.” Was I crying when I picked it up? Did the tears from when reading the inscribed beauty beneath this free sentence of ultimate freedoms? Does it matter? Tears cleanse.
“Trust nourishes what questions choke.” I breathed it in. Filled my lungs and soul with each intake. Good air, in. Bad air, out. The carnage of the swim fell further behind. The air was rich and pure and abundant.
“Doing trumps done.” I rose to my feet. Ready to travel. Ready for the path ahead. Ready for the unknown that calls me sweetly home.
“Giving is your piece of sharing.” Rocks in the backpack to be shared to the ones that ask. I felt them in my spirit. The place where they shall nurse and be nursed and spring forth in any season as they blossom.
“Peace is your share of receiving.” I laughed as I took my first step up the path on this side of the River of Pain. Payback ain’t a bitch after all. Payback is a Beauty. Balance is in the giving. Time to move on up this hill. It was one heck of a swim. Almost didn’t make it. Glad that I did.
~ “Thank them while they can still hear it.” ~
The Temple
Once upon a time, there was a Temple. The slaves built it high on the hill as directed by the Feminine. It was consecrated as it was built to Numbers and Signs so that the Tribe and the herd would have a place of worship and protection. This Temple was a four sided Pyramid adorned with the spears of service with the blood colored gems of slavery that shined forth for all to see.
In time, a very short time for the Tribe and the herd, the Temple was discovered by others that were unable to see the Magick. Brick by Brick, the Temple was taken down and scattered to the winds. Aside from the four spears over seemingly empty space, there is little evidence of the Temple there as this day dawns.
Yet it is there. It is even larger for as the Bricks were scattered to the winds, the Magick of the White Light went forth with them. It shines in protection now for Tribe and herd for the Tribe and herd was also scattered to the winds and planted where they blossom as this day dawns.
Come to the Temple and worship in love and safety. Know that the Temple is where herd and Tribe are as well. Those that did not see removed evidence of their ignorance….as least they tried. The Temple survived and grows.
~ “I tried to build a pyramid once and it turned into a story.” ~
The East
They came to a land of choices. They carried seeds planted by Roman Catholic planters that weeded their energy with Patriarchy and belief in One Right Way. The Roman Catholic Crusaders ended up as anti-Christ in an irony that washed newer shores with a feeling of right and ownership that shaped a promising new land.
Those that chose to come decided for themselves and those they believed their responsibility. Those that came based on other’s choices came in either actual chains or chains of ignorance forged one generation at a time until they only knew their place by the male that ruled them.
To these new shores they came first as explorers…beholding to purse strings and flags. Then they arrived as conquerors and claimers of White Might and male ego that tainted the vision for this place of nature and beauty. Their roots went deep, sucking the land dry as they drove natives into it or from it…ever inching westward. First, the shores were littered with them as evidence of what eroded with each passing wave. Then the forest was chopped from the land and fueled their journey to the plains. Land that was always there was brought and sold to people that also brought and sold those that lived on it or were ripped from other places to tend the land now claimed as theirs.
The farmers turned their abundance into business and pushed the land beyond its very nature and out of cycles to produce whore-like masses of good inferior in quality to what came from the ways of balance. They shared as harlots versus caretakers of Gaia.
Still, the movement Westward continued. White trumped red. White trumped black. White trumped yellow. White trumped white. They stood erect and shoved their malehood deep into the land and took the juice from it. They raped and fed in vampire like manner on all there was to consume. They gorged themselves while many thirsted and hungered around them.
This was their choice and they served their choices like well taught children. There was an innocent righteousness about their savagery that tainted their diet and their offspring eventually sought truth elsewhere. This is the beginning of the true irony. They isolated themselves so well in arrogance and falsehoods that the truth they did not see now returns with a vengeance. A vengeance of purpose to connect to balance and truth that was here when they arrived in this land of choices.
~ “If you are about exclusion, please feel free to count me out first..” ~
Sanctuary Expands
It waited patiently and now moves beyond where I thought it to be and becomes something more. Something that beckons and welcomes for it is time for the seekers to be in that place. The Sanctuary steps into its own light for it is needed. Needs are to be met. So many needs. Peace. Acceptance. Solace. Comfort. Insight. Quiet. Connection. Protection. Refuge. Solitude. It becomes a place for that and more. Ceremony and Ritual. The Sanctuary expands and it does so this day and in days to come. It is time. It is possible. It will be done.
~ “Come plant yourself in my garden.” ~
Tomorrow’s Child
Tomorrow arrived a day early and I’m already there. Turns out tomorrow has been here for quite a while. Could be months but more likely years. Wrapped me in its arms and let me think it was still today where I was for as long as I needed to get a clue. Tomorrow is cool like that.
I should have known. There were tons of clues. All those things I learned and did in my yesterdays popped up all over the place. Right when they were needed. Helpful stuff. Insightful, too. My garden of days was in full bloom. Lots of the right seeds were planted, took root, and produced a bumper crop of really good stuff. For decades now, my yesterdays were all over my todays. I weeded out the shit, harvested the good stuff, filled my hunger, and shared the rest. Felt like really good todays based on some damn good yesterdays. Silly me. I was one day ahead of myself. Took me some time to realize it.
Sure my todays were great. Saw the fruits of my labors and the learning from my mistakes. Life was easier to live. It is much easier to get to where you are going when you are already there. Something like that. Yet it was different. I was different. Calmer in some Zen way. People around me wondered, “Is he high or something? He gets pissed off a lot less it seems”. I moved through life with an infuriating Mona Lisa smile of knowing something. Savored it while sensing my understanding was slightly left of center.
Thought it was a connection to the global. The Citizen of the World approach to everyday living. Linked the change to that awareness. In a way, it was and is. In more ways, it is not. Unless I am the whole world. I ain’t the whole world. I live in the world of my own making but it is a world that includes everyone and everything else. It is just more mine in a way since I make it. My world today is the direct result of my yesterdays and it is dang good world. Yet my world today is not about today. It is about tomorrow because I am already there. I am a Time Traveler.
That is why each thing I do feels different. I realize it came from yesterday and that what I do with it feeds my tomorrow. Each choice. Every word. All the smiles. Each and every thing I did makes today and today directly shapes tomorrow. Wrap your lips around that and wet your whistle. It’s the tune of Global Awareness and Responsibility for Self with a pinch of time travel just to spice things up.
My todays feel different because they are different. I made today yesterday and live today like it is already yesterday. I am Tomorrow’s Custodian. Tomorrow will be a light cleanup day along with some seeding for great things to come and deep doses of joy and peace for everyone. Today is only important because of what it does to tomorrow. Today is only as good as what we did with our yesterday’s.
This day ahead of where you are stuff does take some getting used to….for sure. That is why I suspect I have been in tomorrow for a few years’ worth of todays. I see things that used to bug me. Some don’t bug me anymore. Some still do. Yet they bug me differently. Less in a way. Yet they bug me and that bugs me. Now I see why. I feel the effects of those things on tomorrow and I feel them today. The ones I control, that is my own stuff, I change. The other stuff I just feel and accept for what they are.
Tomorrow will come and it will be glorious. I know that today. I will be here tomorrow or I will be somewhere else. Time Travelers welcome tomorrow. Especially when we are already there. Time Travelers celebrate yesterdays and carry all the good stuff forward as they travel. Travel light, Light Travelers. My world of today is the result of my yesterdays. My world of tomorrow is already here. See you there, boys and girls.
~ “My writing is my legacy. In the words, I am immortal.” ~
Declaration of 4,000
Let it be written. Let it be known. I am giving away 4,000 massages. Four thousand one-hour sessions of touch. Shared this vision in class at Massage College the other day. Declared myself the self-proclaimed Johnny Appleseed of Touch.
Ever wonder about Johnny Appleseed? Wonder why he did it? He did it because he could. He did it because he had too. It called to him like some insane mission. I understand that, Regardless of if you think him legend or truth or right or wrong, ponder how many seeds Johnny Appleseed planted. I know how many. Exactly how many. Also wonder how many of those seeds he planted actually bloomed. I know how many blossomed and bore fruit. How many seeds did Johnny Appleseed plant? Johnny Appleseed planted every seed he could. How many bore fruit? Enough.
So I am giving away 4,000 massages. The world needs touch. I touch and learn even more about the healing and wonders of touch thanks to the Utah College of Massage Therapy. One plus One equals 4,000. The math is easy. Even doing it myself, it will be done in less than 10 years after graduation. Eight free massages a week, 50 weeks a year, and, presto, ten years. Ten years to give away 4,000 one hour sessions valued at $60. Cool.
Who gets the free massages? That is actually the easy part since everyone needs touch. My target audience are givers. Teachers…..who deserve touch and are likely spending their money on classroom things rather than themselves. Volunteers that work the soup kitchens, Red Cross, Senior Centers, School crossings, and all those places where people give freely to touch others. Rescuers that live in the thick of things every waking moment and need a place where they can just close their eyes and be, even if for only an hour. Healers that spend each day tending and doing because they deserve a place to recharge a bit. Cashiers, garbage collectors, toll booth people, bus drivers, coffee jockeys (I love you!), and all those folks who make the world happen and often feel like backdrops. They deserve to be the center of attention for sixty minutes in my world. The Who is easy…..those that need.
Why give it away? For me, it is my ministry. It is what I do. I must. I will go to Chief of Police, Fire Chief, Major, Hospital Administrators, Directors of Nursing, and more…and ask them to give away a gift certificate. Ask them if they will put that certificate in the hands of someone that needs it, deserves it, and will likely use it. I suspect they will. I will ask them to give the certificates to different people. One a month, two a month, whatever they can handle. Let the cop on patrol have it for herself, her family, or a victim in need. Let the volunteer have it and give it to their partner to thank them for understanding. Let me be the one that introduced them to the wonders of healing touch that they deserve to have and to share.. Yet there is more. I explained to the class how much business sense it made.
The business sense comes in the form of repeat business and referrals. Some will come once and some will come many more times. To me. To another Therapist. Some will begin to make bodywork part of their lives. How many? Enough.
Some of you might read this and wonder if it will really work? Can I give away 4,000 massages. I began the other day and offered each of the forty students a free massage. All they had to do was sign up and we would make the sessions happened. I sweetened the deal a bit and said they could give away one of my sessions. They could give it away to someone they loved or a stranger or whoever they thought needed a session and would use it. They can do via telephone to with my market just like telemarketers do. I mentioned I was willing to do that very same thing in their markets. Would give away their sessions and let their business be known in the same way mine will.
The class had about forty students that day. So far eleven have signed up and all of them to get a session, to give away a session, and to share one of their sessions that I will give away. Thirty Three touches ready to be given. Yes, it can and will be done.
It will happen in less than ten years….likely a lot less. What will it look like and feel like when that four thousandth person is touched? It will look and feel like this:
Vision Quest
The full moon smiled and I smiled back. My smile out beamed that Feminine orb and I knew it and she knew it. Was it really that easy? Four thousand massages? Four thousand people offered touch and comfort and healing? Four thousand? Wow! Yeah. It really was that easy.
What a perfect night. A perfect moment. This spot. This moment. This peace. It mattered. It all mattered. It made a difference. The healers rallied. The seekers showed their faces with quiet dignity and everything flowed with that amazing ease of things meant to be.
Odd though. The faces are fragments. Quick flashes. The classmates that linked well beyond the class. The instructors that became much more as they gifted their gifts. So many smiles. So many ah ha’s. So much joy. Why do they flash through my mind now? They are important yet they parade by so quickly. I try to hone my focus and the flash cards of smiles accelerates. Why? What could be more important than them? What?
Time to pace. Time to peel it back. Time to understand. The moon helps. She always helps me. She warms and comforts when I wonder why the specifics are kept from me. The wonderful touches. Why do the specifics elude me now on this night when the four thousand went from a number on a white board to reality? Why? Why? Why?
Specifics. That is why. The specifics are important in the doing. Now, the outcome is the thing. Four thousand! Damn! Four thousand. So easy. Touch and heal and be and connect and link and grow and gather and heal. Four thousand! Holy moly, Batman. We did it. Four thousand. Of course the specifics elude. It is much more than four thousand faces. It is one face. A great big smiling in joy face with a smile that says love me cause I love you and you and you and you and, yes, even you. Yes. It is the face of love and I am just a sparkle in its eye. Four thousand. Wow! What a start.
~ “We will heal this planet…….by touch.” ~
Chakras
Chakras are complex but must be understood to live in balance. Balance is essential for once balance is achieved, the Chakras are flowing and feeding in ways that accelerate all forms of joy in life. Sadly, Chakras are seldom understood and usually out of balance.
Reading material on Chakras is readily available and ranges from complex theorems that link Chakras to things ranging from quantum physics and space travel to simple publications that read like The Idiots Guide to Chakras. Reading material of any variety on this topic should not stand along for Chakras are not something to be mastered from book alone. Book and other written word should supplement input from experts who truly understand not just Chakras but how this opens doors to metaphysical insight and physical joy. Even expert advice should be supplemented with other expert advice for no one expert can link it all.
Chakras are not without controversy. Some see the concept as mumbo jumbo or black arts. Even those that embrace the concept often disagree on some of the fundamentals. Issues like how many Chakras there are and where the root Chakra is located generate not just discussion but dissension among chakra advocates. It can intimidate neophytes and frustrate veterans. Still, there is so much benefit once Chakras are tapped and balance, the effort to sort through all of that is well worth it.
A simple approach to chakras is to look at the main seven and understand how to balance them. With balance, the Chakras are open and the energy flows through all and feeds all. The seven flowing unite and the being is energized on all levels. In tune not just with self but with Universe. Singing like the most effective machine even envisioned.
One can look at the seven Chakras as three lower (Root, Ego, Solar Plexus) and three upper (Throat, Third Eye, and Crown) balanced by the fourth, or middle, chakra, the Heart. The three lower are of the earth and the flesh. Our ego, sexual needs, power, foundation, and self-reside here. Balance here keeps us grounded as well as healthy. The three upper are of the spirit and higher purpose. Our true purpose, communication, vision, and spirit reside here. The Heart links the upper and lower Chakras and is of love and belonging.
Balance all and our earthly needs are met while our higher calling fulfilled on a daily basis. Out of balance, we hold back our true purpose while focusing on worldly things or have visions and actions that have no base in reality. The heart chakra is the gateway to ensure the flow moves both ways and brings our higher purpose into every day and drives every day actions to meet the higher good.
This teeter totter approach to Chakras is not very sophisticated. It is not documented or highly researched. It does however have one major advantage. It works. As long as there is continuous study and communication with spiritual yet worldly people who touch destiny today.
~ “Looks like I ended up with a whole new set of wheels anyway.” ~
Yin Yanging Away
The sun kissed the night away with the gentle brush of morning’s breath. Mothers loved through the fear of what ifs as their children stepped into their lives. The quiet spoke to the seekers that listened. The noise silenced the questions for those that hated to hear. Conquering the pain of growth pleased me again as light moved to dark and dark enlighten. I slowed down to realize how fast I traveled and thought the short trip took much longer than it did. I reached for my son who sat across the table from me and touched my father who died almost three decades ago. In class today, I learned about teaching and taught about learning. In being touched, I was healed more and in touching, I was healed even more than that. I closed my eyes to see better. Each day I touch the Feminine in me makes me a better male. The less I understand the more I know as truth. The more I give, the more I have. The less things are about me, the more complete my joy. The louder they spoke, the less they were heard. My yesterdays were honored today and tomorrow arrived all the better. I used all I was to be all I am and I am more than I was because I did. Someone asked why I was so joyous and I answered the question with a question of if why really matter. Pausing to analyze joy freeze frames the roller coaster for the riders so those in line can decide if they want to ride. Someone reached to me because they were strong enough to admit they were feeling weak.
Yin Yang is life. The ultimate balancing act. The taste of being in balance and the quest to return to balance when we move from it. Everyone lives Yin-Yang…even those that don’t understand it. They live it each they then reach for food when they are hungry and drink when they are thirsty. Sleep calls when we are tired and we move for comfort when pain pays a visit. Our existence is about balance. Our planetary struggle is about balance. Each of us is part of the whole. When we take more than we need, we are the cancer of imbalance that eats away at the ecosystem that is this realm. Balance is essential for life. Balance is the state of continued motion. Out of balance is the call for change. Out of balance too long and things die. Yin Yang is the natural state of balance in all things…and is a state we taste and then hunger for when we move from it.
To Everything (Turn, Turn, Turn)
There is a season (Turn, Turn, Turn)
And a time to every purpose, under Heaven
A time to be born, a time to die
A time to plant, a time to reap
A time to kill, a time to heal
A time to laugh, a time to weep
To Everything (Turn, Turn, Turn)
There is a season (Turn, Turn, Turn)
And a time to every purpose, under Heaven
A time to build up and a time to break down
A time to dance, a time to mourn
A time to cast away stones, a time to gather stones together
To Everything (Turn, Turn, Turn)
There is a season (Turn, Turn, Turn)
And a time to every purpose, under Heaven
A time of love, a time of hate
A time of war, a time of peace
A time you may embrace, a time to refrain from embracing
To Everything (Turn, Turn, Turn)
There is a season (Turn, Turn, Turn)
And a time to every purpose, under Heaven
A time to gain, a time to lose
A time to rend, a time to sew
A time for love, a time for hate
A time for peace, I swear it's not too late
(Adapted by the Book Of Ecclesiastes, music by Pete Seeger, taken to the top of the pop charts by The Byrds.)
~ “I love Gravity. It’s the only reason I stick around this place.” ~
Joy Of Touch
So many thirst for the joy of touch. To find that place where there is touch simply to touch. The level of trust that is the foundation of peace. The place where you can just be.
Drifting on the clouds as another is the gentle breeze. Resting on the beach while another is the music of the waves. Walking the highest path on the steepest mountain while another is guide and cheerleader. Facing your demons while another is Excalibur.
The joy of touch. Rising from the place better. Happier. More aware. Tasting the changes that come and knowing you welcome them. Feeling all the darkness behind you and smiling at the light that is you now.
The joy of touch. Feeling the truth of the Collective Consciousness from the connection with another being. Knowing all things are part of you and you are part of all things. Sailing forth, hand in hand, with the wind to your back, a smile on your face, and a song gifted to any that hear.
The joy of touch…showing yourself and knowing another tastes joy as you share.
The joy of touch. The touch of joy. Enjoy. In joy. Joy us. Joy to the world. Reach out and touch someone.
~ “Empaths do it everywhere.” ~
Why You?
Why would someone care about you? Why would you matter? Do you really matter? The world will spin on when you are gone. People will miss you. The ones that know you. The family ones and the friend ones and a few other ones. Why would anyone else really even care? What do you matter?
So you go through life. You do your best. You wonder if you made the right choices and live the right dreams. Part of you says yes. Part of you says hmmmmmm. Enough of you says yes and you go on.
Just in time, someone says “Thank you.” A real one…sweeter than the square fillers spoken like Pavlov’s pooches. “Thank you”. You smile and wonder what you did. Right when you need it, another says, “I remember you said (fill in the blank) and it always stuck with me.” The surprise turns to pride and the pride turns back to surprise. Has you wonder. Wonder what else you did that mattered to someone you did not realize heard what you said or saw what you did. That holds you over and the person in the mirror smiles in their eyes a bit more.
Sometimes there is a landmark. A family gathering, a reunion, and the evidence embarrasses your relatively clueless soul. You are told of the difference you made. It is real, it is sincere, and it is almost always a surprise. You really did do something important….just by being you. More important than you knew, different than you thought, and sweeter than all get out.
Then you remember those that touched you and went on their way as you went on yours. The teacher that said “you should write…you really are good at it.” The cashier who remembered your name and how you took your coffee back when you were a face in that crowd. The stranger that returned your wallet and its contents when you had given up the search. The ride from the broken down car to the gas station and back that night when the rain promised to drown you. The voice on the phone that eased you from panic to sanity when you were so desperate from whatever was so vital at the time.
The kindness of strangers matters. Even when we know the strangers by name. Even when we are the stranger. Especially when we are the stranger. Meet yourself, please. You matter. Someone out there needs you and you don’t want to keep them waiting.
~ “I covered her beauty so I could feel her truth and see the beauty of it.” ~
Whys
Sometimes the why is inside. Soul felt. Moved on blindly. Something that remains just out of sight somewhere on the path up around the bend that comes hithers your lust for right and peace and love. It sirens and you sail forth.
That is when you are at your best. Blindly loyal to the unknown truth that is Cosmos, God, Goddess, and all the angels and saints of hopeless causes and losing battles that can be the human experience.
When you move on that why, you are the music that reminds you of listening while holding the first hand that enticed in new ways of flesh. You are Van Gogh in the field putting everything there onto the blankness that is merely the canvas of your soul in that moment.
The why is feeling, hunch, and sweet cluelessness. Why? Because you are where you need to be, what you need to be, and doing what you need to do for whatever reason will make sense to you later or never and you don’t care. You just know. You know without knowing why you know but you know you know. So you do.
Kiss the mundane with passion and it froths with life. You give life as life fills every inch of your emptiness. Trust in the why even when you don’t know why. Trust when you know is easy. Trust when you don’t is living.
~ “Nature brings us together….like it or not.” ~
Reflection
The mirror holds the truth. Look in it. Look beyond it. Look into the eyes that see the eyes but see within the eyes more and more. Look deep into the mirror and see your soul. Be the animal you are and see deeper to the core. Inside.......that energy from somewhere else linked to something else. Look into the eyes and see the face of your own destiny. Then ask the one question that is the ultimate trial of judgment....ask the one question of the only one that knows the true answer.
Go ahead......cut through all your own bullshit. Go ahead.........stop wrapping your truth in qualifications. Go ahead............throw your buts into the shit can of uselessness where they belong. Go ahead...........answer yourself truthfully as you ask the one thing that really matters and puts everything in perspective.
Do you do your best?
One word answer......do it! If you dare. Accept the answer as what is. Then move forth and live your day in joy and with a purpose so deep it seems almost vengeful. Then ask the question again at the end of this day. Then again on the morrow. Until you get it right. Then do it again and keep it right. Game on.......if you dare.
~ “We will be asked one question when we exit this realm. “Did you do your best?” If we did, cool….come on to the next stage. If we did not, that’s alright….go on back and try again.” ~
Weema Wept
Pop goes our Jesus.
Crossing the road.
Playing chicken on dem bones.
Hambone, Hambone, have you heard?
Heard the news tonight.
Bad moon rising.
Rising star.
Rising to the occasion.
Rose by any other name.
Thorny issues from good books masking bad men with itchy fingers and dirty minds.
Touching without feeling, feeling up, and pushing down.
Denial.
Press conference to address the issues.
Stamp your feet.
Postage due.
Do not bend, fold, or mutilate.
Spindle me this, my inquisitive friend.
Who pays the piper when the piper blows smoke up your ass?
Ring me up for church on Sunday.
Cock a doodle did.
For whom does the bell toll?
Ding Dong.
Avon calling.
No ticky-no shirty.
Ring around the collars.
Pay as you exit.
No need to panic.
Move along, folks.
Show’s over.
The next service will be somewhere else.
Coming to a theater near you.
See you soon.
Save me a seat.
Let’s wait for the DVD.
Someone said something about it but I will judge for myself.
Here comes the judge.
Supreme pizzas and supreme courts.
Hot peppers and hot topics.
Under them robes are more robes.
Under the under robes is something that should be behind the curtain.
In a box.
Big deal.
A really big deal.
Put that in Double Jeopardy, place your bets, give me the hard ways, and cover the horn.
Ain’t that one hell of a tune?
I can name that tune in Cliff Notes.
Cheat sheets.
Cheating death.
Death and taxes.
Render unto Caesar.
God only knows.
Come up and see me some time.
Pop in any time.
This is where I came in.
Shimmy, shimmy, coco puff.
Shimmy, shimmy now.
Now is the time for all good men.
That’s the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth so help me whatever your name really is.
My god is bigger than your god but I still have a hard time dotting the i.
Crosses are T’s.
Tea for two.
At three.
For three.
Thirty-Three and a third.
Maybe a fifth.
No more than a quart.
Is that a deposit bottle?
Do they still make those?
No Deposit, No Return.
Look who’s back.
Surprise.
Hi there, Pop.
Fool on the Hill.
Sees the world spinning round.
Round, Round, Get around, I get Around.
Gather round, boys and girls.
Pop goes our Jesus.
~ “You’re killing me here!” ~
(Jesus Christ)
Spirituality
This is the important stuff. This is my truth. It is yours for the having if you wish to have it. This is my core and is why I did what I did when I did my best of all the things I did. This is why I was here…….and am here right now as you read about me. I believe in love and that it is forever.
SOURCE—My Higher Power
SOURCE is my higher power. SOURCE is all the good I knew from religions. The Jesus I know and honor is SOURCE. All the angels and saints are SOURCE. SOURCE is Buddha, Mother Teresa, Francis of Assisi, Gandhi, Elvis, Buddy, and more and more. SOURCE is everywhere and in everything.
Before I knew life, SOURCE was there. Before humans knew life, SOURCE was there. Long beyond life as we know it, SOURCE is already there. SOURCE is beyond time and space. In our darkest dark, It holds the candle in wait. In the brightest light, It waits even brighter. Before we get to where we are going, It is there. When we look back at where we were, It waves to us. SOURCE is everywhere. SOURCE speaks in the silence and silences the noise.
The creation of all things comes from SOURCE. All things destroyed return to SOURCE. SOURCE walks inside of us and with us. SOURCE brings the dead life anew. SOURCE transcends limitations, illness, and obstacles. The very concept of limitations of space and time and physicality are human things. Things we are to experience and then defy by moving closer and closer to SOURCE.
SOURCE is in everyone we meet and everything we experience. SOURCE is the deer, the air we breathe, the water we drink, the wind that washes over us, every rock in every stream, every fish in every sea, and every sea on every planet. SOURCE is that and more. SOURCE is all.
When we look for It, It is there. When we do not, It is there. Open and It is there. Close and It waits. SOURCE knows…before you do....when you do not. SOURCE knows. We can know. SOURCE includes. SOURCE forgives. SOURCE heals. SOURCE provides. SOURCE trusts. SOURCE is your SOURCE and my SOURCE and SOURCE of all things. SOURCE is all we need.
SOURCE is my Higher Power. SOURCE is God of my own choosing. SOURCE is yours as much as it is mine. SOURCE is us.
~ “Catechisms, cataclysms, catastrophic, cat of nine tails….go, cats, go.” ~
Higher Power Calling
“How does the SOURCE communicate with you?”
Wow. What a thought provoking question. Well…..the same way anyone’s higher power communicates with them. I hear SOURCE in the silence. Nature is the message of connection of all things and my quest to be part of the balance of it all. Sometimes I hear SOURCE through others. They say things and I hear the inspiration of something that is beyond them. Each of us is linked to SOURCE so each of us feels it and speaks it at times in our actions and our choices. I hear it in and through others.
As a writer, I put my words on paper and share them. Sometimes those words are clearly mine and all about me. Most times in fact. That is why I work to write in the positive and about inclusion for that is my path and those are my choices to what is right. My words are my truth and what I say about anything and anyone is actually about me. I do my best to honor my Higher Power in my words yet read them with the same caution I do anyone’s…….the words are more about the speaker than the topic for we speak them.
Yet at times, I feel SOURCE move me as a writer. I speak from a place that is beyond me. Knowing things I did not know I knew. Speaking of experiences I did not live but that read as sure as if I did. Those times are humbling. Even scary. Those are times when I am out of the way…….and realize the words are not mine…….yet pushed through me. One of the clues for me is when I read the words and realize they are new to me. The words read like they are someone else’s. That is when I pay closer attention. Kinda ironic in that I pay closer attention to my words when I first suspect they are not mine.
Then I realized that I pay closer attention to other’s communication when I suspect it not their communication. I love when I hear SOURCE through others. When words come from a place beyond them. I drink in the messages and celebrate the SOURCE moving through them. It helps me realize that sometimes SOURCE moves through me in the same way.
There are times I write things and wonder “what the heck?” I look at the words and see them as not mine. Then I look at them and the message eludes. I wonder why I bothered writing them. Wonder if they are to be shared or if they even matter. Sometimes they just sit. Other times the words almost demand to be shared so I share them. That is usually when the words are most powerful. Someone reaches back and says, “wow…thank you. I needed exactly that message at exactly this moment. Wow.” I chuckle a bit and realize I was just a message boy. The message was beyond me. Did not know what it was and do not have to know what it was. I just have to deliver it when it says to be delivered.
“How does SOURCE communicate with you?” Anyway it wants, anytime it wants, and every time I need……..as long as I listen. Just like it does for any and all of us. Thanks for asking.
~ “When Jesus calls, take the call. He’ll just keep calling until you do.” ~
Out Of The Closet
Another day, another walk. I thought about Jesus. Grew up with him. Learned about him in school and at Catholic Church. Thought about where he was. He was in church and in school and at weddings and funerals and stuff. Sometimes we brought him home in picture or statue form and then he was in our house. On the mantle, if we had one. Maybe on a little altar of some kind. I brought him home as a kid.
Somewhere along the way, I moved him to the closet. The closet of my mind. Maybe my soul. It was a closet. The front of the closet but have to admit it was still the closet. He was in there whenever I needed him. Break glass in case of emergency. Available upon demand.
He was always with me though. I could pull him out of the closet any time. Car slid out of control and my “Holy Shit” was “Open Sesame”. Out popped Jesus.
Along the way, I started just talking to him. Seeing him in other places and other people. Jesus came out of the closet. Kinda snuck up on me. Saw him beyond what I was told to see. Embraced the Trinity…him as Father and Holy Spirit…Daddy and Spooky in the juvenile version. Saw those were our way of defining him and them and realized he could be anything. Male. Female. He could be She. Animal. Vegetable. Mineral. Arab. Jew. Atheist. Wow! A Higher Power so powerful it could be something that didn’t believe in itself. WOW! Jesus got way bigger for me. SOURCE.
Walked the other day and thought about that. Just me and Jesus and his many forms. Me and SOURCE and things about churches and states and things written about God and Jesus and governments. Thought about the separation of Church and State. Used to think that was to protect churches. Living in Utah, I see that also hopes to protect the State. Jesus popped back in and reminded me of some words from one of those books attributed to him. “Render unto Caesars what is Caesars and render unto God what is Gods”. What is Caesars? Where are the universal things? The things for all citizens.
Helped me know what I expect from governments. If it applies to all, do it. You are there for the citizens, government. United we stand, divided we fall. I am a simple guy and things get much simpler to see the more simpler I get. I am glad Jesus came out of the closet. He helps me think when I am on walks.
~ “The fifteen year old me know more. The thirty year old me did more. The forty five year old me questioned more. The almost sixty year old me is more.” ~
What Would Jesus Do?
Strong about being weak. Bold choices to stay the same. The backbone rises to defend the status quo. Pinning aches and pains to anything except the truth. The world is all around me and I learn much, hope more, and believe in responsibility. I pray and trust and do. I question.
Jesus died for who’s sins? His father’s? Our fathers’? Everyone’s fathers? What about unmarried couples before he was born? Did he die for them, too? Did he die for the gays and lesbians of Babylon, Mesopotamia, Greece, and China? Did he die for the Aztecs, Mayans, and Anasazi? Did he die for the barbarians, Mongols, Vikings, and Druids? Did he die for Joseph even though Joseph was a step-father? Did he die for his mother even though she had a child out of wedlock? What about the inn-keeper who refused him his first room? What about those that denied him, mocked him, and killed him? What about all those that came after him? What about us? Did he die for the whites even though he was likely olive skinned? Did he die for non-Jews even though he was Jewish? Did he die for women even though we are told he did not choose any for apostles? Did he die for every single living thing regardless of what they were and what they did? Did he come to save everyone before he lived, just those after he lived, or all that ever were and ever will be?
Perhaps he was the wake-up call. If so, we need a louder alarm. What changed since mankind killed him? Perhaps the sin was the price he paid to try and get our attention. Perhaps the sin of mankind was that we killed him. His followers celebrate that he came for us and died for us and shines the way to salvation for all of us. Jesus cleaned the slate for us. What have we done since? What are we doing now?
We sing praises of him. We celebrate what he is. We mark his birthday, his death, and his resurrection. We pray to him to save us. We look to him and ask ourselves how we can be like him. We ask ourselves “What would Jesus do?”
What would Jesus do? He would live his truth, be responsible for himself, and do what he could to save the world. He would not give up…despite all the evidence to the contrary. He would wait and hope…then celebrate those that get it. He would be as he was…inclusive and loving and patient and so much more. Just like his Mother. He would be at the head of the picket lines and in the darkest alleys. He would touch and heal and sleep and snore and then touch and heal some more. He would open the doors and say come on in. He would go into the desert or up on the mountain and cry and ache sometimes. He would laugh and dance and celebrate whenever he could. He would hold his brothers and sisters when they cried. He would cry in their arms when it was his turn to cry. He would own all his faults and ignore all ours. He would know his kingdom was inside of himself all along and that he would be back where he came from after he did his best here. He would ache for those that blamed him for what they did and love them all the more in their cluelessness. He would want to quit at times but then continue. He would ask himself, “Why me?”, answer himself with “because”, take a deep breath, and live a lot of Mondays. He would be lonely at times and question.
Jesus would question. That I know without question. Jesus would trust. Blindly. That I see more and more. Jesus would love. I love that. Christ knows, we need a lot of love to forgive our screw ups and make things right. What would Jesus do? He would do what is right and that’s enough.
~ “I hit below the Bible belt.” ~
Thanks, Jesus
Thanks for the nice Solstice, Jesus. I am going to have birthday cake tonight in your honor and wish your peace on everyone. Still riding the energy of time with you. Might as well extend the celebration. Seems fitting. Last night was much needed, my friend. Your company does good things inside of me. Just like when I was a kid. Sweet and innocent things. Solstice is sweet and innocent to me. Kinda like Christmas use to be. Like Christmas is supposed to be. Like you are. You have a spark, dude.
I like that spark. The warmth that embraced the kid in me and hugs the adult. Jesus and me. Quite the pair. I dig it. Your birthday is special. Use to be the best day of the year. Wish I could say it was because of you but it was the other stuff. Even when I was a kid, you kinda got lost in the shuffle. The other stuff was so damn good. The flood of gifts. A sense of abundance. All is right with the world moments that made sleep more difficult. Excitement of the coming that overwhelmed everything. Even you. We meant well. We just fa-la-la’ed to the point of oo-la-la.
Had to wrap things. Spruce them up. Decorate them with lights and tinsel. It was time to be shiny and new. The season of sparkle. Somewhere along the way, the lights overshadowed you, Jesus. You were a footnote we remembered when we had time. There was you and a whole mess of other stuff that was more exciting. More urgent. Santa trumped you in stores, TV shows, decorations, press releases, and sheer volume. I tasted it as a kid and got kinda addicted. Alright, I got way addicted. The season shifted back when I was little. It was about waking up to tons of stuff.
There was also reverence. A special reverence that even the kid in me knew was really what you wanted me to feel. The reverence of Silent Night, Holy Night. The quiet sacredness of a single white Christmas light over the Nativity set that was Mom and Dad’s back then and is mine forever. It was as simple as simple gets. A few pieces of wood put together with some finishing nails that had to be reminded of their job each year. That was “the” manger for me. I felt you more there than in any church at any time. It makes me smile. I know you chuckled when that little me brought weeds from the Dodd’s yard and called it hay to make the ceramic you more comfortable. Even the youthful me knew my solo versions of Silent Night confirmed my emotions were richer and sweeter than my singing voice. That is still the case. So I sing in words and call it my song. I sing more publicly to you now.
Back then, I got caught up in the receiving. Still do at times. Hey, I like receiving. I just understand how much I already have much better now. It was and is in the giving that I feel you. When the gifts are from my soul. That is your message, my friend. Give. Give your best. Share your gifts and have more in the sharing.
Yesterday, there were hints of that. Much needed hints. I was present for those that reached and shared. My time was put to use…..for others. They knew they were heard. I sensed they were comforted and that gift was felt. It was Solstice. The appreciation for the abundance that is life. Simple peace and everyday magic.
Solstice is that peace and magic for me. It feels like crystal clear white lights on a stunning tree under a moonlit sky on a mantle on white. It is out there anytime I reach for it. Hey, that’s kinda like you, ain’t it? Last night had that image AND you. The feel of winter and the irony that winter begins the return to light. Solstice is pure…….like you and your message. Solstice is a Temple of my own making. A bright and shiny Temple.
The moneychangers have been banished from this Temple. Pushed three days hence. Three days. How fitting. Now it is time for you and what your birth means. You are the message of Solstice for me, Jesus.
Shiny and new. Special. Loved by that Force that creates this beauty that is life. Loved into life, throughout life, and well beyond whatever we understand as life even at the best of our most joyous imagination. To know we do fly on wings that carry us across time and space. We are the magic of love. We are blessed children. We are Peace on Earth. There is magic afoot this night. Feel it from a manger. See it in a child’s eyes. Dance on the wind of its sweet change. This is Solstice. This is you.
This is the way you kissed me as a child, Jesus. Nice that you walk with me now. Thanks for celebrating Solstice with me. Tonight let’s light the candles and call it your birthday. Yeah, I know what the calendar says. I will celebrate your birth anytime I choose and I choose tonight. Will celebrate again on that day when the gifts are opened. You are bigger than one day. We all are.
Happy Birthday. Thanks for the swell gift, man.
~ “My inclusion includes even those that exclude. I love everyone.” ~
Massaging Jesus
I gave Jesus a massage yesterday. He called himself Micah and looked slightly different than I remember but it was Jesus. He let me know once he was on the table. Just before I touched him. He let me feel him. He felt as sweet as I remembered. The wounds, of course I thought to myself (silly human me did look), were gone yet I felt them and what they meant. His legs spoke of traveling and standing and just knowing. Human legs. Perhaps just a vessel but his vessel this day. I touched them with reverence.
He likely smiled when I told him to go to his sacred spot and let me comfort him. I am an energy guy and guided Jesus to such touch. He very likely smiled but he went there. He was there and here and I felt him just be. Felt him just trust and accept the comfort of touch of someone that sensed who he was and feel the humanness of him.
It should have overpowered. At least, I think it should have. Yet, it reassured. Reassured that the Jesus I love was here and came to let me touch and comfort, and yes, I will dare say it, heal him. He came to let me see he is on my path even as my path takes me further and further to a spirituality the exceeds organized religions. I did not turn away from him when I moved in new directions. He laid there in silence and let me hear beyond any either/ors.
His feet called to me so I spent time there. Reflexology on Jesus. I smiled. Then his head and Cranial Sacral on an Ascended Master. His very head rested in my hands and I eased it to one side and tenderly massaged one side and then the other. It was a motion that was rich and pure and so very, very right. I comforted and he helped me believe again. Believe as sure as the white suited boy that opened my mouth to host his visit long ago. He entered me that day and stayed. Yesterday, he helped me realize he was here all along and would be.
During the massage, I took his hand and looked down into his eyes and asked. “Do you have any idea what you are?” He smiled a very Jesus smile and said, “Yes, I know exactly what I am” and closed his eyes again for more touch. At the end of the session, we spoke briefly and I asked him more directly, “Alright. What the heck are you??” He smiled again and said, “Merely a fellow traveler, just like you.” He departed. At least in the form of Micah.
Yesterday, I massaged Jesus. Perhaps he really massaged me. Healing is like that.
~ “Peace in your share of receiving.” ~
Next In Line
My moment with Jesus arrived. He looked like I thought He would. Except for his hair. Healthy. Happy. Robust. His smile was beautiful. Perfect teeth that shined almost as much as His eyes. His eyes were deep brown and his hair was short. That surprised me a bit. Always pictured Him with long hair. Like the paintings. Like the time he lived. Folks had long hair and beards back then. Jesus had short hair and for some reason that made Him feel more real.
Just Him and me. I could ask Him anything. So I did. Asked Him about his birthday and the stress it caused. How the day was a challenge, emotionally and financially. How the pressure to ensure the day was perfect, the gifts were right, and the family all got along began building around Halloween and lasted well into the New Year. How much it distracted from His birthday and peace on earth and goodwill to men. I asked Him about that and how come it was that way.
He smiled when He answered. “Cause you brought into a whole bunch of crap that has nothing to do with me.”
“Any other questions?”
~ “Truth is a good thing. We need a lot more of it.” ~
Quotation Marks
“The reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated.” (Jesus Christ). I found His words so powerful and insightful. Reassuring. Helped me see the human and understand more about the divinity in each of us. Walked more briskly having fed on the manna that was those words from that mouth.
“Don’t put words in My mouth.” (Jesus Christ.) That changed things. Who am I to put words in His mouth? Who is anyone? What did He really say versus what somebody said He said? Are the words His words or reports of reports of allegations and hopes? “Don’t put words in My mouth.” Wow. That would be cool if we didn’t. It would be cool if we just accepted your words are your words and my words are my words. I believe in Jesus. The reports of His death have been greatly exaggerated. Putting words in His mouth is bad juju, metaphysically speaking. I like the bumper sticker “Jesus, Please protect me from Your followers.” Those aren’t His words. Those are somebody else’s. I like them though. So I will make them mine. That’s how it works. The words are always somebody else’s right up until they are ours. Our truth. Our choice. The things we believe, live, practice, and more. Words are like that.
Positivity. Just a word? Not for me. Ha! Ain’t that a hoot? “Not for me.” That ain’t positive so don’t quote me on that. Hell, don’t quote me on anything. Take what you want and just say it yourself. If you believe it. If you don’t, how can you be positive? I believe it. Absolutely, positively. I believe it. Believe in inclusion….just like Jesus did and Buddha did and Allah did and the Elders, youngers, and in between did and do. The ones I believe. Crossovers, bend-overs, hot cross buns, and making bunny ears just cause it makes me think of my magical niece and she makes me think of my daughter and then my other daughter and even my son and my dad and Mom and whoever the heck else touched me. Lots of touching. Lots of loving. Lots of living. Screwing up but learning from the screaming and gnashing of teeth that is holy shit, what did I do this time?
Yep, living. The reports of my death have been……well, pretty much ignored. I can live with that though. Christ knows I have to cause…..only I know the truth. You can quote me on that….as long as you believe it.
~ “You have to be pretty damn cocky to quote yourself. You can quote me on that.” ~
Fool On The Hill
The fun house floors tilted over the water and I wondered how anything did not drown. Mom whined to get attention and it worked. Dad used his child labor and laughed when it was rubbed in his face. How Nixonian. How weird. We crossed time and space and crossed time and space in the crossing. Crosses were there but if they really were there they were just out of sight. Over the hill. Blacked out. A knight in mourning for the weak. I can see how that would be because that was how things were. Send in the Calvary. Three at a time. Hang em’ high, poke them in the side, and say they are done. This is the feast of ages that starved us while we waited for truth.
The Fool on the Hill let the fools put him there. He spoke without writing and accumulated without selling. His touch was his reach and his stories he told. He waited two sleeps, Easter-egged in a borrowed tomb, then shiny pennied, Ladies first. Thorns and roses and a walk to Emmaus. Roads traveled on Saturday nights that made us late for church. Sleeping Sundays. Rosey Mondays. Ruby Tuesdays. Thank Anyone It’s Friday. Holy Yesterday, Batman. He died a fractioned life when they split his infinitive. He promised a dozen roses and they promised more. “I Amway.” He crossed the T’s and dotted our eyes forever. They nailed the one that nailed it. End game. That’s a wrap. Some think he is hanging around the masses. The masses slept through one too many sure men. Time to pay the piper. This erection. That erection. Resurrection. Round and round we go. No more bets, please. Smoke ‘em, if you got ‘em. Bear your own crosses. There’s plenty to go around.
~ “The words stabbed me from sleep. My tears washed me awake.” ~
Lent
Lent. May have to borrow some of it. From that place I knew as a child. A Catholic kid back when the flag and the cross meant good things and made me proud.
Lent. It was always my favorite season. It was Holy in ways bigger than I understood then and even more important now. The sweet feel of self-discipline…a wonderful brick in the foundation of growth. Rituals. Ceremonies. Hiding things in plain sight so we appreciate them when we let ourselves see what is already there. Kneeling. Crawling. Stations of the Cross. Incense. Somber and pious people focused on making it through to the Resurrection. Metaphoric. Meteoric. Heroic. Such wonderful times. Each day a day of more holiness and increasing insights. It was more than giving up candy and cake. It was doing with less. It was celebrating doing without so that we understood what we had and could do without just because we were stronger than habit, custom, and comfort. Suffering is important…..doing is important. A choice of embracing our mettle. Suffering for the noble cause of honing ourselves. Proving something to ourselves that we need to know. Remembering how strong we are. Lent was our time to prove to ourselves that we would and that we could.
Lent. Proving we could change. Proving we would change. Actually doing it, even for a finite period. Enough time to know we had an out……salvation awaiting. We eased into Lent and had the end in sight when we struggled. We had the end of the trials and tribulations right there to ensure we stayed with it. Lent was like that. It gave us reason to change. To improve. To sacrifice. To endure. To show we were more than creature comforts and bad habits that we knew we were better off without anyway.
Lent. Lent was the time we remind ourselves not to be lazy. Lazy in what we thought about and did each day. We brought our spiritual connection from that once a week thing to an everyday thing. The offering of self brought us together as a community of doers. A community of people willing to break their routine to be better about choices that we made and lived each day.
Lent. We can use a little Lent right about now. We can use a lot of Lent right about now. We need to remember that we can and should and then actually do things. We need to remind ourselves that our spirituality is an everyday thing and that we can change in important ways……inside. Forever.
Lent….it is for all of us. Happy Ash Wednesday, Citizens.
~ “I am Latin lover.” ~
New Lent
The first day of Lent. A season with great merits. Put aside the Dogma, Doctrine, Dictates, and Shame….and you have a thing of beauty. A time of inner focus, good works, and appreciation. Sure, it sings of Penance, suffering, sacrifice, death, flagellation, sack cloth and ashes, and crawling on your knees. Once you get past all that dark stuff, you have some sweetness that makes Lent my favorite Catholic memory.
A time of inner focus. Catch the fever. Self-Improvement is a multi-billion dollar industry. The idea of focusing on yourself is good. Know where you can improve. More importantly, do something about it. Do something about it by capitalizing on your strengths. That inner focus, just like any self-improvement effort, has one big stipulation. You have to actually do it. Dang it. I knew there was a catch. Lent taught me to actually do things to improve myself. Tony Robbins, Robert Kiyosaki, Echhart Tolle, Kabbalists, Oprah, “The Secret” cast and crew, and thousands of others get it. Look at the book shelves, infomercials, and lecture circuit….Lent nailed it early. Improve yourself. You need it. We deserve it. All will be better. I believe that.
As for good works, imagine people that cared even before earthquakes arrived. What a world that would be. Imagine volunteers who did it without court orders. Wow. Good works are, just as the name implies, good. In fact, they are actually great. Let’s link some positive affirmations with the idea of volunteering and have folks get out there and do Great Works!.
“Great Works! Come on, boys and girls. Give me a cheer as if Wal-Mart paid you to do it. Great Works! Before the tragedies! Before the mandatory community service! GREAT WORKS! Because we can! Because we should! It will be GREAT!”
Yeppers, Lent got that idea right. Good works are good for you and for those that need them. Win-Win.
As for appreciation, I think it is indeed under-appreciated. Catholics have some pretty solid ideas about how to appreciate what you already have. They hide it for a while and then surprise themselves with it on Easter Morning. Hey. Don’t laugh. It works. They hide the statues in the churches.
Now, they are not that good at hiding things evidently. I don’t think they even fool themselves. They hide the statues by leaving them right where they are. They just put purple cloth and stuff over them. It is like a mass pretend. “I don’t see any statues under those statue shapes things where the statues used to be. Do you, Mildred?” “No, I don’t, Harriett. The cross used to have Jesus on it but now it is just a cross with some bunting. Wow. I think I will do a novena and pray for answers.” Quite frankly, I knew the statues were there even when I was a very young boy.
Then, on Easter Morning, they take off the cloths, and VIOLA! Look! Statues! Right there! Where they were before Lent began! Where did they come from?? WOW! A Lenten Miracle. Easter Magic. Right here. Wow. No wonder Easter is so special. Plus, there is chocolate.
Now, the idea of hiding something you already have and gifting it back to yourself might seem a bit silly. Yet, it works. It reminds you of the beauty that is before your very eyes each and every day. Beauty we might take for granted. It helps us appreciate what we already have…and that, children of any Higher Power, is wisdom lived.
Lent has lots of merit. What it represents is bigger than any assigned day and outshines even the blood and death nailed to it over the years. It is the opportunity as well as the responsibility to be our very best, improve our very best, and share our very best. Now, that is something I applaud.
~ “What I used to find in Church is all around me now.” ~
Lessons
Yes, there is the pain and hurt. Accepted. In that pain and hurt are lessons to be learned and lived and loved.
Yes, it is a struggle to move away from blame, guilt, anger, negativity and the emotions that seem to drown. Yet that struggle is easier than in previous times.
Lessons come and must be stated so I feel them and learn them and live them.
The less I consume, the more I have to share.
There are resources available that I must relearn.
It is time to take better care of what I have.
The broader the audience, the wider the touch.
In the shadows resides the unseen Magick.
Sex can blur the lines of separation.
Money can blur the lines of connection.
Sex reveals our hiding places.
Money can foster our hiding places.
The ultimate fear of the species is being alone.
In the Solitude, there is only self to own and heal and struggle. The Truth deepens in the seeming silence.
~ “Talent follows truth.” ~
Important Day
Today is a very important day. Important people were born today. Important people died today. Today is that day when that really big event happened and all those others things fell into place because that really big event happened. People in that place you read about in that magazine a few years ago commemorate today with the ceremony that sounds a lot like that thing you do later this year to honor your roots just like your mother taught you and her mother taught her. Today is special in that way. It is a day of births, deaths, anniversaries, separations, surgeries, trials, parties, weddings, first times, last times, remember that times, and did we really do that times. Today is important and this year marks another year of that importance.
Circle today on the calendar. Sometimes the Full Moon falls on this date and that sweetens the celebration. When the New Moon falls on this day, which happens less than once every ten years, it is tradition to remember all the things that came to light on this day since the dawn of time. In Ancient times, today was celebrated by a sigh of thanks just before sleep came to mark another day of survival.
Today might not be as special as those days selected by Churches and Governments as High Holy Days, Holidays, Official Observance Days, or whatever they call them but today is special just the same. Today is one day away from yesterday and one day closer to tomorrow. Today is now and now is really all there is when we remember to celebrate it. Today is so important that when tomorrow finally arrives, we rename it Today.
~ “What is ahead will be known when it is behind you. Now is what you have to taste and digest. Spice these moments with your yesterdays. Tomorrow will arrive right on schedule.” ~
Labyrinth
You enter a Labyrinth to meet who you are on the inside and return all the better. I traveled two this weekend and they enhanced the feeling of fluidity and connection that permeates more and more as of late. The first was a Gathering and the synergy of crystal bowls, dowsers, incense, Munay-ki, stones, and much more forged a moment of peace and harmony. The group was Eclectic while bound by inclusion and open minds. The Rose crystals of the Labyrinth welcomed and warmed.
There was a moment of East meets West and potential conflict in what was right at that moment. Yet the conflict fluttered to the ground wingless and both disciplines treated the situation with dignity that respected the differences and honored the common goal of comfort and healing.
Storms clouds gathered with the energy of lightning and rain hovering overhead. The place was enhanced for it felt the surge there and opened to it. Nature is being Natural and things were Natural that night. It was super.
The second Labyrinth was different in look as well as feel. It was plainer. Simple rocks from the mountainside with a few crystal stones mixed in. The Gathering here was more connected…it was Solstice and honored as such. A simpler opening ceremony and a more connected close of the Gathering touched something of ritual and right. A musical interlude afterwards transported across time and space. I touched loved ones near and far, here and gone, as the whirlwind of youth circled in the dance and celebration of the continuum that is life.
Labyrinths offer answers and insights. I accepted the offering this weekend, drank of self-truth, and opened wider to the path traveled as changes amaze this seeker of truth, inside and out.
~ “There is more to know about your knowns.” ~
Treasure Hunt
Once you found it, you can quit looking.
It ain’t on the shelf. Any shelf. Never was. Can’t make enough money to buy it. It ain’t for sale.
You’re born with it. Live for it. Die without it. Live forever with it.
Someone can hand it to you. You must be present to win.
Try and hide from it and you will succeed. Keep it for yourself and it dies. Worry about keeping it and it runs away. Won’t come when you call it. Can’t force it to stay.
Ache for it. Long for it. Pine for it. Wish for it. It is inside of you. On the other side of the pain you inflict on yourself by keeping it from others.
It was yours and can be again. When it is yours, it will stay as long as you share it. Feel everyone, it is all yours. Let others feel you and they will give you even more.
Hear it in the music and speak it in your words. Read of it then sing of it to all that hear you. Dance to it, for it, and in it. See it in the paintings. Paint it for the seeing.
Dressed to the nines or naked as the jaybird, flash it in your eyes as you smile and high step in the silliest celebrations.
Give it and have it. Have it and give it. Wait for it and wait alone. Hunt for it and hunt alone. Be it and feel it. Feel it and be it.
Have a bite of mine. Feast until you are full. Yum, Yum, eat ‘em up. There is a lot more. Plenty more. Good and Plenty more. More than enough to go around. All the way around. Round and round we go. Makes the world go around.
X marks the spot. XXX. OOO. Hugs and kisses.
Tag, you’re it.
~ “Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—I took the one less traveled by. Now, where the hell am I?” ~
Sea Of Life
Course Rules
One person-one boat.
Each boat is different.
Everyone can win.
End the race in your own boat. (No exceptions.)
Finish Line will differ for each boater and will not be known in advance.
Plug your own leaks. (Recommend your leaks are plugged before trying to plug others’ leaks.)
Some leaks will require other’s help.
Damages you inflict to your boat or others’ are your responsibility.
Some parts of the course must be sailed alone.
Some parts of the course are easier traveled with other boaters.
There are enough supplies on the course for everyone.
Some of the things on your boat are intended for others.
Some of what you need is on other boats.
Everything you gather along the way will be redistributed when you leave the course.
The course is constantly changed so maps are to be questioned.
Bon Voyage!
(Wish I had these when I first got on my boat.)
~ “Man’s attempt to control the flow does not last.” ~
You’re Best
“Did you do your best?”
One question? I was kinda hoping for a multiple choice. Fill in the blanks maybe. Can we go through each Commandment? See what each command actually meant? How about venial sins? Can we start with mortal? The defense, not the sin. One question?
Can I do the what abouts? What about him and her and them and this time and that time and gender and cards stacked against and the time I did that really good thing? Can we talk about those things?
One question? Who decides? What if? Help me out here. So she did.
“Did you do your best? Think about your choices. Did you do your best? Think about your sharing. Did you do your best? Think about your thoughts, words, and deeds. Did you do your best? Your choices, sharing, thoughts, words, and deeds are all yours. Think about what is all yours. Did you do your best?”
I wanted to say yes. I really wanted to say yes. I knew the truth though. I looked at her and spoke the truth. My truth. My judgment. Based on my choices, sharing, thoughts, words, and deeds. I knew the truth.
She tucked me in and smiled. “Your best is good enough. When you do anything less than your best, you have more to do. After all, you are the best. That is why you are here.”
Tomorrow is another day. It arrives with a good morning and a chance to do. You’re best.
~ “Giving is your peace of sharing.” ~
New Place
This is a new place. I feel the others here and know they feel me. Travelers. The settlements are behind. Those are that there are there by choice and gather together to become the places that weather the storm in their way. Those in this place are in motion yet more and more move in the same direction, drawn to what calls to them just as I move towards what calls me. This is a place of self and those that travel in search of self. Nice to know they are there and in motion as well.
No maps here yet this place is known, or was known, and is being excavated or revealed or something akin to that Undiscovered Country that we all seek to call home again. Everything feels Apocalyptic yet fresh and I have no idea how that happens but taste birth and hope even in the feel of death and despair.
Reunion is in the offing. Newness is on the rise. My solitary warrior senses peace in those that move on this path and applauds the wisdom of their caution and the very fact that their trust survives. This is a new place. For a while, I thought I was alone. Salmon swim upstream despite the odds for the same reason I am in this place. Still, it is nice to see some others swim these raging waters too. The rocks can be brutal and the bears are pissed as well as hungry.
~ “You are part of something big.” ~
Compass
Use your compass to map your life.
Maps speak of routes available and already marked by others.
Maps show you where you are and where existing roads may take you.
Compasses are about direction.
Your True North is your light.
Know it and let it shine your way.
SOUTH
Face there first for the Ancients Ones and Ascended Masters send Magic and Hope to all from that place where warmth rings this realm. Open to them and remember that you are here for a reason and part of all that was and all that will be.
WEST
Turn there to feel the calling to explore. Feel that place where the sun sets and the moon lights the darkness each time it returns. Honor your explorations with the confidence that all the Magic that was is yours and you are one that honors your gifts. Go forth knowing your needs will be met and share so all are honored with your presence.
NORTH
Look there. Feel the seasons. Sense the winds of change. Know dark moves to light and cold to warmth again and again for balance is indeed the very cycle of life.
EAST
Feel your past and the rubble that remains. Carry forth the best that was while honoring each thing that has been. Everything happened for a reason and made you who are. Choose what is yours from then and shoulder it forth to be all that you were meant to be.
BELOW
Prostrate. Know that we all serve each other and each thing we do is connected to every other thing that is done, has been done, and will be done. Feel Mother Earth and open to your place on Her and Her place in All things.
ABOVE
Raise your arms in celebration and surrender to the wonders of the Cosmos. Feel the wonder and vastness of it all. Speak the words “As Above, So Below”. Balance your totality with your nothingness. This is your time, your place, and your joy.
SOLITARY TRAVELER
You enter this realm as a Solitary Traveler.
You move from it alone…leaving all that is here forever changed by your visit.
As you travel from the beginning to that return to where you came from, you are here to find your true light.
Alone.
Use the Compass to find your path. You alone know the right way. In that Solitary journey, you will find your light. A light you increase by sharing it.
Be you. Your best is good enough. Then you are wonderful company for those drawn to your light. Enjoy the warmth of their light and remain on your path just as they must remain on theirs. We are all Solitary travelers….on the path from there to back there and we here for as long as we intended to be. We grow together. We find our own lights and light the world in our gathering.
~ “Maybe you are already on a different path.” ~
The Traveler
He looked over his shoulder at his family as he headed out of the village. They waved and he did as well…his a salute of thanks for they prepared him for his journey to the best of their ability and wished him well as they encouraged him on his chosen adventure. Inside, he wondered if he would ever see them again. He hope to rest in his mother’s arms again but understood that may or may not be. For now.
At the next village, the guard there asked, “What is your name?” That seemed a strange question to him but this was their village so he honored their way and answered. “I am Gil from a place called Jersey”. The guard paused but then pointed to the path to the right and wished him well. The village was nice…a bit like where he came from yet different as well. After a short stay, he headed further to the West to taste more of the East.
At the next village, the guard asked, “What is your name?” He answered in growing confidence. “I am Gil from Jersey”. The guard pointed to a path in the middle and wished him a good trip. Again, he saw evidence of his homeland but tasted of things prepared slightly different and danced in a way he had not danced before. They liked him and encouraged him to stay. He was tempted but headed further West.
The next village was much bigger and there were several guards at the crossing. He stood in line with many as guards checked their papers. This was the first time he saw armed guards so he approached cautiously when it was time for review. “Who are you?” He paused and then answered. “I am Gil.” The guard asked a new question of him. “Where do you come from?” This seemed different and he saw this place was much different than his home. “I am from Jersey”. The guard then asked several other questions about the nature of his business and the length of his intended visit. He answered but entered this place with caution for he sensed the uncomfortable nature of the questioning. He found a place to rest and asked others in the Inn why the guard asked so many questions. In his time there, he found out the village was under attack from forces to the South as well as the North but especially from the West. The villagers closed their border except for travelers from the East but had to ensure only those from the East were allowed entrance. The villagers were proud people and defended their religion and property from the savages and lesser peoples from other places. He remained there a while but felt more and more uncomfortable here. He sensed this place was much bigger than his home but less like his home than any other place he had been. In the morning, he headed West again but steered towards the South and over the mountains.
The trip was quiet and he saw a few on the road but spent most of the time enjoying the scenery. He thought about where he had been and what he had experienced. It seemed a long while until he saw a marker indicating he was somewhere new. He looked around for the guard but there was not any. He continued on the path and entered a place of homes and buildings. He asked to the registered. The person at the registration desk asked, “What are you?” He thought for a few minutes and said, “I am but a farmer.” The clerk wrote it down and then pointed the way to a farmhouse where he would be comfortable. He spent some time at the farmhouse. Days turned to weeks as he talked to many other farmers there, some from this land and others that traveled as he did. He enjoyed the company and hesitated to depart. He liked being with farmers and learned much from them. Still, he was called to travel so he did.
A while passed and he entered another place and was eager to be registered. When asked what he was, he spoke eagerly and declared himself as what he always wanted to be. “I am a businessman.” He beamed at the memory of his time in the farm market and how many improvements he made to the profits for all the people of the village. He knew he was good at the business of farming and intended to be even better. The clerk pointed him to the hotel for businessman and indicated a local store where he could find very nice business clothing at reasonable prices. He purchased some fine clothing, felt the power of the clothes of commerce, and stayed at the hotel. Dinners were superb and the discussions of economies of the many lands went well into the evenings as business people from all around shared their insights. He mingled and became very well known for wisdom on farm products as well as other things he learned in villages along the way. The others thought him much more than a businessman and he opened to teach them what he knew. He remained here a very long time but soon headed to the South with the West being a place he liked but he obeyed his draw to what was South of this place they called the West.
At the next place, the registration clerk welcomed him warmly and shared how nice it was to have a Teacher with them. Almost immediately, students approached seeking his wisdom. He taught and shared but several in the group challenged his thoughts and said their way was better. Much of the class time was spent in debate and, while he usually won the debates, he was spent afterwards. In time, the debates grew tiresome and he headed from the place.
In the next place, he was again Teacher but the people were open and he learned from them. Their willingness to share with him and learn from him awed him. He traveled faster and taught and learned…then moved on. He taught and learned even more and headed further and further South. He danced from place to place and savored being Teacher. His reputation grew.
In time, he was welcomed in places he had not been and was known even before he arrived. He felt wonderful. His journey took him to a place where they taught teachers and he entered the hallowed halls of learning and was changed. Teachers there directed him and other students on journeys to places he did not even know existed. These Teachers were more than Teachers. They were taskmasters and nurturers and much, much more. They came from places that seemed almost unreal at times…more myth and fable than any place on any map he had ever seen.
In time, he questioned what he was and revisited every aspect of his past, his present, and especially, his future. The Masters pushed him even harder and he traveled places almost blindly but loved every minute of their guidance.
One day, he paused and looked at the heavens. The East was the direction of home. The West was the direction of journeys that opened him to the wonders of this place. The South was the place of Magick that opened him to places and ways beyond anything he knew in the East and from the West. He looked to the heavens, stunned by his level of thanks and awe. He fell to the ground in thanks. He lay on that very spot and slept the best sleep he ever slept. He felt his Mother’s arms around him that night.
In the morning, he rose and headed to the North. He looked to the heavens and answered his own questions.
“I am what I need to be”.
“I am headed home”.
“I am home”.
For I am a Traveler”.
~ “Our only limitations are those we place upon ourselves.” ~